A Burning Reminder
by andyoureturntome
Summary: Sherlock is deeply, profoundly in love with John, and neither of them (consciously) realizes it. In the aftermath of their encounter with Magnussen, both are left emotionally reeling, and all of the feelings Sherlock has been repressing begin to haunt him in the form of dreams and phantom aches. Continuation of where Series 3, Episode 3, left off. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**This is un-beta'd at the moment, so please forgive any mistakes! Also, this is not Brit-picked. I'm American, so I'm going to use American spellings. I will try my best to inject British terms where appropriate, (lift instead of elevator, etc.) but there are bound to be things about which I am woefully ignorant, so please bear with me!**

**There might be possible triggers in this story. The beginning of this fic deals largely with extreme anxiety and preoccupation with mental instability. It explores past trauma and the stress coupled with that. There will be other possible triggers that occur in future chapters, and I will denote them when they arise.**

**This is written in first person and the present tense. One of these on its own is enough to be disconcerting, I know, and both qualities together can prove off-putting. You'll get the hang of it, though! Hopefully.**

**Obligatory notice: I own neither the show nor the characters in the show. I don't write this for profit, but I do write this at the expense of sleep and schoolwork.**

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><p><em>"I've always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feelings, but don't you see? My body is betraying me."<em>

Sherlock POV

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><p><span>1. Sooner or Later, It All Comes Apart<span>

**…**

The cracks are expanding. They grow, like a tumor, fractal lines spiraling out in ominous fissures under my chair. I rest my chin on the steeple of my fingers and watch the creeping process. Their reach has extended since last night, and the grasp of their skeletal fingers is almost at John's chair. I watch it with detachment, as though I'm watching a particularly interesting experiment. And I'm fascinated to see the outcome. I'm the external factor—the catalyst. One touch from me, and the floor could fall away. I pull my knees into my chest, the action causing reverberations through the wood. Ill-portent settles over the room as the echoes of the creaks and groans fill it.

The cracks are expanding. Evidence of a flaw is what they are. An obvious tell. My mind flies out on its own, making connections instantaneously. Stories have cracks: little things that don't add up, cheap paint that peels away all on its own. _Secret_. The word comes, unbidden, to mind, and I shake it away impatiently. But it's too late. The memory is already hurtling toward me. When I close my eyes, I see the gun, aimed steadily at my heart. Bones have cracks. Fractures that radiate out from bullet wounds. Life seeps out from the breakage.

The cracks are expanding. Relationships have cracks. Pictures flash in front of my eyes. The church. The reception. John and Mary at their wedding, making vows, cementing their bond. _Liar_. The word rips through my brain like a gunshot, and the picture of the happy couple dissolves. Just like the trust. John and Mary are in the room with me now; John is across from me, and Mary is in the client chair. Tension crackles in the air. John looks broken. Mary is fighting to hold herself together. And I'm rupturing from the inside out.

The cracks are expanding. They are so busy glaring at each other that they don't notice the lines in the floor, shifting beneath their feet. They don't even notice me. _Leave_, I want to tell them. _Leave before it all falls apart_. But I don't. The slightest shift in weight, and we could all plummet. And I already feel like I'm falling. Black creeps in at the edges of my vision as I lose consciousness. Internal bleeding. Pain no one can see. _I'm dying, John. I'm dying_.

The cracks are expanding.

**…**

I come to awareness slowly, pieces of the dream adhering awkwardly to reality until I realize that they don't fit. The tightness in my chest releases. My brain is whirring at full speed again, and it's a relief. I hate those first few moments of disorientation that accompany the transition from sleep. It's one of the many reasons I stay awake for days on end.

The dreams are new. Another reason to avoid sleeping. In the past, my sleep was a black, dreamless state of abjection. A brief respite for the transport. My body was so exhausted that it would essentially shut down and go into a near coma-like state. Now, my brain runs rampant. Thoughts skitter out of my control as the filing cabinets of my mind are upended. Dreams. A kaleidoscope of thoughts without a purpose. I don't want to think about them, nor do I want to think about why they're coming.

Not wanting to waste any more time on the dreck of my subconscious, I force myself into a sitting position. My bare feet make contact with the floor. In a swirl of cotton and silk, I get out of bed and slip into my dressing gown. Without looking at a clock, I instinctively know that I'm up earlier than usual. Fleetingly, I wonder if Mrs. Hudson will have brought up my tea yet. Probably not. She is rarely around when I need her, and she always pops up when she's of no use.

Footsteps on the stairs catch my attention. They're too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson's. I know those footsteps. They've walked with me, always one step behind. I leave my room and open the door before he even has a chance to knock. He's got new wrinkles, I see. Worry lines around his eyes; stress lines in his forehead; frown lines by his mouth. All of his own making.

"Stopping by again? You've been doing that a lot lately."

He makes no response as I step aside to let him pass, but I am treated to the expression that has been etching those lines in his face.

"Trouble in paradise?"

I know I'm goading him, but I don't care. I didn't sleep well, and my patience has been shortened considerably. And irritation loves company. Or something like that. His glower deepens, and his shoulder collides with mine not accidentally.

"You know the answer to that," he replies testily as he throws himself into his chair.

"Hm."

He looks a bit red in the face, and he's not at work. His phone begins to vibrate, and he jabs the volume button a little more viciously than is necessary. Long after it falls silent, he glares at the screen as though it's caused him a personal offense. Another fight this morning, then.

"So will you be returning to Harry's couch this evening? Such a shame. You and Mary had just begun sharing a bed again."

"Oh, don't act like you deduced that from my gait or the way I'm sitting or some crap like that. I know the two of you get up to your secret texts and phone calls."

_Bitterness, so much bitterness, John_. Every time I see him these days, he's rankled. Not that I've seen him much in the past month. The limp's coming back. _Still miss the war, John?_ Absent tremor in his hand. _No. You fight it every day at home_.

"She's worried about you."

We both ignore the omission of myself in that statement. A non-committal grunt comes from the vicinity of the plaid chair. John puckers his lips and lands his chin in his hand. Two fingers slide up to his temple as he studies me. As we dwindle into silence, I turn my back on him and seize my microscope. Even in his prickly state, it's nice to have him back. He picks up a random book and begins to read. The scene practically hums with nostalgia. With me at my experiments and John in his chair, it's easy to believe that nothing has changed.

I shift slightly so that he's in my periphery. Minute motions at the edge of my vision draw my attention. Every few minutes, John's head will dip, bowed with the temptation to sleep. He and Mary may be sharing a bed again, but he clearly hasn't been resting easily. No sooner does he drift than his head snaps up and instantly, he'll look over at me, as though making sure I'm still there. Behind the anger, I see the smallest flicker of concern. So there is another reason for this visit.

"But you didn't come here to talk about _your_ problems, did you?"

John snuffles slightly as he rouses himself again and looks over at me. I wait the typical minutes it takes for him to follow my train of thought. Often, I carry on conversations in my head, and he is left mentally straggling. Finally, he catches up with me.

"In a way, I did. I came to talk about you."

The joke is robbed of its levity by the coldness in his tone. A brief moment of searing pain throbs from the place where the bullet was lodged.

"You alright?"

The tenor of his voice changes, lifting in fear. Looking down, I realize that my hand has unconsciously flown to my chest and clutched at the old wound there. The floor creaks as he turns to get a better look at my face. It sounds like the wood is splitting apart. Involuntarily, I flinch at the sound. Not good. Not good. Dreams are seeping into reality. Like my subconscious is bleeding. _Delete_.

John is on his feet now, jaw clenched in stubbornness. The hard set to his eyes informs me that my normal evasions won't work.

"What's the matter? Mrs. Hudson says you've been acting erratically lately, even for you. You go out at odd hours. Pick fights with her. She says she hears your shouts at night sometimes."

He advances toward me, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Unnecessary catalogue of unrelated phenomena to build a nonexistent case."

"Sherlock…"

Unexpectedly, there is no annoyance. He suddenly sounds cautious. As afraid to ask as he is of my answer. Seemingly of its own accord, his hand reaches across the space between us. We both stare at it as though surprised by its presence. It hovers tentatively before closing over air. Jerkily, he retracts it. My chest throbs.

"Sherlock, if you're using again, you can tell me. I know we haven't seen each other much since, um, Christmas," he stumbles awkwardly over the messy memory, "but you're still my best friend, and you can tell me. I won't be angry. I won't be disappointed. I will be there for you."

I wonder if he knows he just echoed my words from his wedding. Another painful pulse shoots through my ribs.

"Dull, John. Do you have to be wrong _all_ the time? It's so boring."

"So, if I open this," he extracts a slim package from the inner pocket of his jacket, "I won't find…anything…unsavory?"

"Well I can't speak definitively on that, but I assure you that it's not drugs."

"I found it on your doorstep," he offers needlessly.

Out of the side of my eye, I give the packaging a scan. Measure the wrapping job. Take in the handwriting. I know who it's from. I hold out my hand, and John obligingly settles it in my grasp. I weigh it perfunctorily before setting it aside.

"Phone."

I wrench my gaze back to the microscope's eyepiece and pretend like it's slipped my mind.

_John mustn't know. Mustn't see. Go, John, go. This isn't about you. Can't be about you._

With a snort, he begins to pivot away.

"You didn't tell me that you started getting fan mail. I guess it was only a matter of time. Of course, if they were any real fans of yours, they should know better than to send you a phone. You don't really have the best history with phones…" the word trails off as he figures it out.

I stare up at him from under my eyebrows. There'll be no placating him now. He lunges for it, but my hand's there first. Tremors run underneath the cardboard. In a matter of efficient seconds, I deftly extract the pink, vibrating phone. Blocked number.

Sputtered questions spill from his lips, and I turn away, letting him direct them at my back.

I say nothing as I accept the call.

"FINALLY! I was starting to think you didn't like my gift!"

So, he waited to call until I had the phone in my possession. Which he wouldn't have known unless he saw John give it to me. Shoving a hand in my pocket, I begin circling the room, looking for cameras.

"Always watching and waiting, aren't you?"

"Always," he stretches out the sound in a whispery hiss. "And I've been waiting far too long for you." His sonorous tones are a palpable presence in the room.

"So tell me where you are."

I'm surprised by how easily we're able to fall back into this pattern, this game. Of course, this always was how all of our conversations went. It's a dangerous dance, replete with careful choreography and tricky turns. One misstep and I could lose my partner.

"You know where I am Sherlock." He drags out my name, turning it over on his tongue as though savoring the taste of it.

"I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in London, if your adverts are anything to go by."

"Clever, clever. But maybe you should stop overthinking it. What does your _heart_ tell you?"

I give a little huff of bemused laughter. My chest hurts.

"I'll be waiting!" The click of the phone cuts off the trill of his voice, and I pull away the phone and bring it between my hands underneath my chin.

The static from the ended call resonates through the flat. A very peculiar twitch is working at the corner of John's mouth, and it only gets worse the longer we stare at each other.

"Right. Well, I'm going with you."

"Wrong."

Hurriedly, I leave him for my room and begin ripping through my clothes and throwing them on haphazardly. I see the shadows of his feet waiting on the other side of my bedroom door.

"There's a pattern here, Sherlock," he calls through the door. I can hear the strain in his voice. "Every time you meet him on your own, someone comes out almost dead. Or supposedly dead."

"And why mess with a winning formula?" Swinging the door open, I brush past him in search of my coat.

"Sorry, winning, how?"

"Well no one's ended up _actually_ dead so far."

"Sherlock—"

In a single, swooping movement, I slip into my coat.

"You're not coming."

"Then you're not going."

I roll my eyes as I loop my scarf around my neck. He steps in front of my path as I head for the door.

"The last time you saw him, you didn't come back for two years."

His eyes race over my face before dropping pointedly to the space below my shoulders. My hand is on my chest again. I allow it to drop away, and it flaps at my side in annoyance.

"I've apologized for that, and you've forgiven me. Of course, judging by your marriage, forgiveness with you seems to come and go. Now move. You can stay here if you want, but you're not coming with me. This isn't about you. It's always been about him and me."

The door shuts behind me with a resounding thud. I am hollow. There's an ache in my chest that has everything to do with John Watson. _Delete._

* * *

><p>The roof of St. Bart's is grey and familiar. Familiar but strange. Last time, I knew I was walking to my death. This time, I'm not so sure. Déjà vu is a disconcerting thing, even when one understands the mechanics behind it. Just the brain, recognizing patterns and attempting to contextualize them and provide familiarity. True, I've been here before, but I plan on leaving here in a very different manner from last time.<p>

I move leadenly, just the same. Muscle memory is proving more powerful that logical thought. Annoying. Even the pale, yellow sunshine, straining through thin, grey clouds is the same. I can taste the familiarity of the situation in the air. Music floats through the air, the inane ringtone blaring garishly through the cold and somber scene. And there he is. Rakish posture, beguiling smile, smug demeanor.

His cold eyes land on me, and the song cuts off.

"Sorry." The singsong word is accompanied with a careless shrug as he stands to meet me. "I'm a sucker for the classics!"

"No problem." I whip out the pink phone. "You seem to be quite fond of recycling old tropes. Coming back from the dead can expend a great deal of energy. Maybe you're all out of tricks?"

"Oh you." He hops onto the ledge of the building. "Always keeping me on my…toes." Theatrically, he totters back and forth, arms flailing dramatically. His mouth drops open into an exaggerated "O." A stage face of mock doom. With an easy grace, he whirls around and jumps back down to face me, affected and overdone frown dragging at his lips. "I thought it would be a nice touch to add a little nostalgia to our reunion."

"And what better place to begin a story than where the previous one ended?"

"See?" Palms up, he gestures widely. "You _get_ me. This is why our story's so GOOD! We were made for each other, Sherlock. Our epic battle continues."

"And the villain makes his grand return."

"Fairy tales are sooo passé. I'm much more in the mood for a tragedy." Sinisterly, he rubs his hands together. "Oh, picture it! The doomed lovers, the broken hearts. My head's practically spinning with the possibilities. And you," he turns to me, head cocked, "you, Sherlock," his hands grasp at the air in front of me, "will be my leading lady."

"And if I refuse the part?"

"I'm offering you the role of a lifetime! Something you can _really_ sink your teeth into." He gnashes his teeth as if to illustrate his point. "Enough with this ridiculousness. Your life has taken on a practically comedic hue! We both know such _levity_ doesn't become you. Honestly, it was absolutely gruesome to watch you become so, so, _boring_. There were times that I almost changed the channel. "

With some dissatisfied tutting, he shakes his head in disappointment, hands clasped behind his back. "BUT! But, you kept it interesting." Cruel laughter tumbles in the wind. "It did become exciting towards the end, when it looked like you were going to die."

He takes a heaving, dramatic pause. The next part, he speaks with relish.

"And Mary pulled the trigger. I've gotta admit, even I didn't see that coming."

"Yes you did."

"Okay, you got me. I did. But I was _riveted_ all the same. Sherlock Holmes, blinded by love. And we both know I'm not talking about her."

My chest is throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

"When you dismiss the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth!"

It's a ridiculous parody of me, the words dripping with acid.

"I wish I could have seen the look on your face when the bullet RIPPED through you. You must have felt so _foolish_ knowing it was because you embraced your most fatal flaw."

"What would that be?"

"Sentiment! A fault found on the losing side! And you almost lost BIG! All because it was impossible, _impossible_ to think that your dear Mary would kill you."

"And I was right."

"You disappoint me. You work in the world of details, Mr. Holmes. Surely you can see a technicality when it's staring you in the face. You had a better chance of coming out of that situation dead than alive, and she knew it. And she took the shot anyway."

A gun is produced from somewhere within the folds of his coat. He holds out the handle for me to take it, and I knowingly take the bait. Instead of removing his hands, he wraps them around mine, securing my grip in his.

"Holding a loaded gun is a _heady_ feeling." He raises it so that it's pressed to center of his forehead. Our gazes are locked on each other. His voice has reached a deadly whisper. He guides my finger to the trigger. "So intoxicating to know that with the slightest bit of pressure, you can cause an explosion."

I wrench my grip away, but he continues on as if there's been no interruption to his monologue, the gun still in place. "But it's only this moment that's fun. Hovering on the precipice; rocking back and forth: will I or won't I? The edge, THE EDGE is thrilling. But, the falling, well, the falling's not much fun at all. You would know—sorry about that."

My face remains impassive. He holds up a hand in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay! No, I'm not. But I'm glad you didn't meet your concrete doom. Look how much fun we can have now! Who would have thought we'd end up here? Just two crazy kids, hurtling towards termination, only to find that we haven't even reached the CLIMAX of our story yet!"

The gun trails down his face, and he brings it into a loving caress, cradled against his chest.

"Oh, but back to guns. They're amusing little props, fun to wave around, but once you fire them, well, they get boring all over again. MILLIONS of people die from a gunshot. It's hardly a creative way to go. But I didn't really expect much from Mrs. Watson. Ugh. Assassins. Horribly predictable, and every one of them the same. But you didn't see the signs. Which brings me to my original point. You're slipping. Domesticity doesn't do you well. You let her get far too close, and then you went and pledged your life to her. Stupid, STUPID! And then she goes and does the unthinkable, and you forgive her. No. You _exonerate her_."

He's pacing now, frustration seeming to seep out of his pores.

_"Y_ou couldn't _imagine_ that someone you loved could betray you like that. Clearly, you know nothing about tragedy. Oh, but don't worry; I'm here to give you an education."

"And what is this? The prologue?"

"Good! So you do have a somewhat rudimentary knowledge. But unfortunately, you're wrong, so you don't get full credit. This is only the title sequence. Don't feel too bad about it. You can't always be right. Though, demonstrably, you can be _wrong_ about everything."

The meandering conversation swirls through my mind, and I sift through it, file it away, try to make sense of it. He's always been like this: all scattershot words and mixed metaphors. The gun disappears back inside his coat, and his phone reappears. A jackal's smile rips across his face.

"And now, I do believe I'll play myself out."

The ridiculous ringtone is back, escorting his exit. Then, eerie silence. He's disappeared again, and there's no sign that he had ever even been here in the first place.

"Stay tuuu-uned!" The disembodied words float across the rooftop and drift lazily in the air currents.

* * *

><p>I don't go home. Not right away. In fact, it isn't until late evening that I finally return to Baker Street. My footsteps are heavy as I climb the stairs. Halfway up, I read the signs that I'm not coming back to an empty flat.<p>

I push open the door to find him sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle clasped in his hand. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is on end. His knuckles are white.

"Oh, good. So it wasn't two years this time. Just twelve hours." A distorted smile warps over his face. _Stop it John._ He tips his bottle toward me. "Cheers to that."

Blearily, he narrows his eyes at me and brings me into focus.

"Why'd-why do y'do that?"

"What?"

"That."

He nods at my chest. My hand pauses in its unthinking massaging. I drop it quickly.

"Shut up."

He grins and brings the bottle to his lips again. Before he can take another swig, I've snatched it away from him. Blinking stupidly, John opens and closes his hand as though trying to figure out why it's empty. During his confusion, I pour the contents of the bottle down the drain.

"Go to sleep, John. You'll be a misery tomorrow."

After sending a quick text to Mary, I leave him at the table and retreat to my room. With one last look at the crumpled figure, I shut the door between us. I'm not hiding exactly. I'm just—avoiding. I pace until my body brings itself to rest on my bed. Ripples of exhaustion course under my skin. Weeks of fitful sleep coupled with the events of the day begin to take their toll.

I lay in the dark, plunging the depths of my mind. Hours pass. It's late. I can tell. My door swings open quietly. A defeated silhouette stands illuminated in the doorframe. It crosses the threshold and comes to a petulant pile on the floor near the head of my bed. He seems to have sobered up a bit, but tinges of drunkenness still hang about him.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"Why am I here?"

I sigh heavily. "Don't bring your existential crises to me John. I'm brutally honest. You won't like the answers."

"No." It sounds like it takes him a lot of concentration to formulate his words. "No. Why am I _here_?"

"On my floor?"

"Yes. And no. I don't know. I guess. Why am I here?"

"Because you are a stubborn fool who won't go home to his wife."

"Ma-ry." He separates the syllables out into two words.

"Ye-es," I mimic him, not unkindly.

"She lied to me." _And there's the bitterness again_.

"Mm. Well so did I."

"No. You don't understand." He's suddenly frantic. "I know who you are. So when you do things, terrible things, unspeakable things, things that hurt me, I can understand. Because I know who you are. But I have no idea who she is."

"She's your wife."

"She's a stranger, Sherlock."

The hall light filters over his face. He has the distinct look of a man sinking into the abyss.

"So why do you stay?"

"I don't know." I hate how weak he sounds. This man—lying curled up on my carpet—I don't know who this man is at all, but he is not John Watson.

"Well, you had best figure it out."

I close my eyes, just for a minute, and doze. When I open them again, I can hear a door opening and closing. John is asleep on my floor. A petite form is outlined in my doorway. She comes in in a cloud of soft perfume that for some reason turns my stomach. There's a hush to her breathing and a hum to her gentle words.

"John?"

He stirs somewhat on the floor. Kneeling, she brings him to a sitting position.

"Mary," he mumbles.

"Yes, John. Come on. It's time to go home."

He goes without a fight, but then, he's not entirely cognizant of his actions. And maybe that's the answer. Keep him numb enough, and he won't feel the need to hurt himself anymore. I don't acknowledge their departure. I'm out of words. All there is now is blackness.

**…**

John is a porcelain doll, shattered on the ground. Smashed to bits. There should be more of him. There are not enough shards here to account for everything that makes up this man. People are running to help. They're not being careful; they trample him beneath their feet, grinding him into dust. I'm lying next to his collection of pieces and powder, a crumpled heap, bleeding out. Blood pools around me and dribbles out in crimson rivulets. It funnels toward him through the cracks in the pavement. St. Bart's looms above us, several stories too tall, the augmented height rendering it concave as I stare up at it.

Faces crowd around us and blend into a multicolored mosaic of concern and panic. Only one figure is salient in the mass. Mary's there. She's reaping his pieces and gluing him back together. But he's not going together correctly; there are too many gaps and holes. _Look at him. He's not right_, I want to tell her. He's clay in her hands now, and she's shaping him into something new—like she's filling a mold. _No, not like that. You're doing it wrong_. But I can't speak. My head's dashed on the ground, my mouth isn't working. Sensing my agitation, Mary smiles at me. "Relax. I've done this before." Her words are a honeyed melody. Her certain fingers move nimbly, smoothing over all of his sharp edges. _Guardian_. The word is written in the careworn lines of her face.

I blink and then the two of them are standing over me. The fragmented slivers have been made into an approximation of John's form. It looks like him, but it's not him, not exactly. Hairline seams run along his face as he looks down at me. _I'm dying, John. I'm dying_. I know he's worried, but he won't let me see. He should know better than to try to hide things from me. He forces a smile, an ugly, broken thing that starts causing rifts between the pieces of his face. _Stop it John. You don't have to pretend for me._ His face is breaking apart.

The cracks are expanding.

**…**

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><p><strong>This is going to be a long, angsty exploration of the relationship primarily between John and Sherlock. Having said that, I do want to emphasize that I don't intend to demonize Mary in an attempt to justify the relationship that is (inevitably) going to develop between the two men. This is going to be a long, drawn-out process and a long, drawn-out fic.<strong>

**If anyone read, I appreciate it so much! Feedback is always welcome! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

_"Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever."_

Sherlock POV

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><p><span>2. The Darker the Secret, the Harder You Keep It<span>

"Mrs. Hudson! MRS. HUDSON!"

Within minutes, she's in the room, nerves and hands aflutter.

"Oh, Sherlock, the shouting."

Ignoring her, I continue tracing my finger down the window frame.

"There are cracks in the wood, the bathroom door sticks, and there's a draft in here. This place is falling apart. You're my landlady—as you keep reminding me—isn't it your job to fix this?"

With a fond sigh, she purses her lips affectionately and runs her hands over her apron.

"Aren't you in a state this morning." Already, she's turning for the door. "I'll get you some tea."

"Argh!" I press my head against the wall and fervently wish that John was still here so I could have access to his gun. _No. Distinction. I don't wish John was here. I wish his gun were. There's a difference._ Pulsations of pain shoot through my chest cavity, and I press against it to make it stop. Through the aching, I distantly hear footsteps returning up the stairs. My phone is vibrating from somewhere across the room.

"Hand me that, John." Lazily, I throw out my hand. Awkward silence lingers before I glance back over my shoulder. Mrs. Hudson is looking at me over the tray she's holding, sympathy and concern drawing her mouth down and her eyebrows together. My arm falls back against my side, and I resist the urge to bring it back up to my chest.

"Well, for God's sake, stop gaping at me and put that thing down!"

With pity still occupying the majority of her faculties, she continues clutching the tray in the doorway. I heave a long-suffering sigh and push away from the window. Mrs. Hudson decides to start moving again as I stalk across the room and snatch up my phone. She's babbling in the background amidst the clattering of china, and I tune her out as I check my messages.

There are a few from John, checking up on me. A couple from Mary. I ignore these. The most recent one is from a blocked number.

**How's the family?**

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson's ramblings in the background are cut short by the very heavy footfalls of somebody lumbering up the stairs accompanied by the tapping of an umbrella.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Manners, Sherlock."

I flop into my chair and wave Mrs. Hudson out of the room. Mycroft lets her pass before settling in the chair across from me. Even though it's petulant, I drag the small side table between us to create a barrier. The tip of the umbrella lands on the floor in between his legs, and he rests his chin on the handle.

"I've had a rather interesting phone call this morning. John Watson had some news he thought I ought to know."

"I doubt any of it was _news _to you."

"Yes, well, while I was well aware of your little rooftop chat," he gives me a pinched smile over the top of his hands, "I'm not quite as sure about where you were for the eleven hours after that." My face is carefully blank. "Dr. Watson isn't sure, either. Told me I should check in on you. Said last night might have been a danger night."

I wonder what John would say if he knew that they're all danger nights now. All those nights he's spent at Harry's and Mike's. He doesn't know how many of them she's spent watching over me. He has no idea how many pits she's pulled me out of, how many raids she's done. _Mary's clever, John. She's found hiding spots you never knew existed._ But we won't tell him. Her entire life has been a papier-mâché of secrets and lies. What's another layer? I stare hard at Mycroft. _What have you managed to peel away, brother mine?_

"Nervous tick?" He nods at my chest, and I know without looking that my hand is maddeningly there again. "I thought we broke you of those bad habits years ago."

I snort and look away. My childhood was a series of lessons, and my brother was my merciless instructor. He spent months training me to restrain physical tells. I was eight. He was cruel and he was relentless: _"Why bother telling lies when your body's screaming the truth?"_

His voice falls to a whisper. "But not all habits can be broken, can they, Sherlock?" _No, Mycroft, they're not like hearts._ Lazily he flicks his eyes about the room and slumps back in his chair, looking bored. "You're not going to make me look, are you?"

"Even if you did, you wouldn't find anything."

"Really?"

"Really. So, I hate to disappoint, but if that's all you've come here for—"

"You're an addict, Sherlock. You're hooked on some dangerous things. And even more dangerous people."

"Moriarty sought _me_ out. You said yourself that he's obsessed with me."

He sets his umbrella to the side and pulls a file out of his coat. Turning it over and over again, he studies it critically. I won't give him the satisfaction of asking what it is.

"So what does Moriarty want?" I can't tell if he's asking me or if he's asking the file.

"What he always wants: chaos, destruction, tragedy. The general pattern of his behavior isn't hard to point out; it's the nuances that I'm missing. The secrets, the dramatics—it's easy to recognize his methods. But there's no discernable goal."

"I wouldn't say that."

He thumbs through the contents of the file before holding it out to me. The thick, manila folder bulges dangerously. Pages and pages of private information. _This is what you do, isn't it, Mycroft? Copy and collate the darkest secrets of the Western world. _He's watching me now, smarmy and smug. I can practically see him swelling with satisfaction as he gorges himself on my gnawing curiosity. Paper and ink coalesce into loose-leaf temptation. And he dangles it over me in his absurdly manicured clutches.

Gold glints from the band around the ring finger on his right hand. His tiny, gilded manacle. _You love that, don't you, Mycroft? Being tethered to your regrets. Dragging around your responsibilities like anchors._

With a flat, smacking sound, he brings the dossier down onto the table that rests between us. By the tips of his fingertips, he pushes it toward me. Even as I deign to lift a hand to take it, he doesn't let go. I feel the measurement in his gaze, gauging my desire for it.

"Take care, little brother. These documents are of a sensitive nature."

"What isn't with you? Besides, since when do you try to conceal criminal intentions?"

"Oh, I see." He folds his hands over his (expanding) stomach and smiles pleasantly at me. There's danger in that smirk. "You think we've got the blueprints of Moriarty's plan in here," he raps the report with his knuckle. "Really, what we've got is more of a snapshot. But you might not like what you see, just the same."

"Mycroft." My hand balls into a fist over the stack. "What are you playing at?" I bite off the end of each word, punctuating them with staccato bursts of indignant breath.

"See for yourself."

I snatch the papers toward me and scan the words, my glower darkening with every sentence I read. A few pages in, and I've seen enough. I hurl it away, but the desire to keep going gnaws away at me.

"What the hell is this?"

"You know what it is."

"A transcript of every meeting John's had with his therapist since Christmas." _I hadn't realized you'd gone back, John. Do your secrets haunt you, too?_

"Why do you have this?"

"I keep an eye on such things—as you know—but lately, it seems as though I'm not the only one doing so."

"Moriarty?"

"Indeed. We found recording devices that aren't ours in the therapist's office. Clearly, he wants to keep his finger on your pulse."

The pain in my chest gives a lurch. My hand twitches, but I keep it defiantly clenched by my side. I know he sees, though. For a moment, Mycroft lets the act drop, and I see the worry.

"As I said, little brother, you are hooked on some _very_ dangerous people."

The blood pounds in my ears, and my head throbs in time with my heartbeat. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._ With a flick of his wrist, Mycroft checks his watch and then glances up at me.

"They'll be going there today," he remarks conversationally. "In fact, they're probably on their way now."

"They?"

"Mm. The Watsons. His therapist thought it would be helpful if they both came in to sort through their problems." He wrinkles his nose. "Relationships. Very messy, and never worth the effort. Especially when it comes to family."

"You would know, wouldn't you, Mycroft?" Vehemence erupts out of me as I seize his hand. "Coming up on the anniversary, aren't you?" The gold ring glints between us. "What's it been, twenty years?"

For the smallest second, naked fear skitters across his face before he's able to compose himself again. _You hate that, don't you? Purgation is what you crave. But secrets never keep. And not all skeletons stay buried. _Victoriously, I release his wrist and settle back into my chair. Snatching up his umbrella, Mycroft gets unsteadily to his feet.

As he reaches the door, he turns back to me, an ugly look skewing his features into something cruel and twisted. I've wounded him, and now, he's got a barb of his own.

"Take care, brother dear. An unrequited love and a one-sided friendship bode for a broken heart."

"Moriarty and I are not friends."

"Who said anything about Moriarty?"

My ribs contract and force all the air out of my lungs. Every thrum of my heart seems to chip away at my sternum. This time, I bring both hands to press against the tightness.

* * *

><p>The door is locked. Annoying but anticipated. The thick wood ensures that no one would be able to hear anything being said on the other side. Unless one were pressed up against it. Which, incidentally, I am.<p>

"I'm trying, Mary. Do you think I want it to be like this? It's just hard. I'll be out shopping, and I'll want to pick up your favorite food, but then, I think, '_is_ it her favorite food or is it part of the lie she told?' Or I'll want to bring you flowers, but I don't know what flowers you _actually_ like. Don't you see? You make easy things hard. And it used to be the other way 'round."

John sounds tired. And defeated. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._ They wash over him and wear him down. I wait for Mary's response.

"You know me, John." She's begging now.

"No. I know a version of you."

It's helpful that there's no receptionist. It makes picking the lock much easier.

"You told me once that this was the only version that mattered. Is Mary Watson not good enough for _you_?"

The telltale click of metal tells me that I've succeeded.

"I thought it was, but maybe that was expecting too much. Maybe I overestimated what I was capable of. Got swept up with the romance of it all."

"He does that quite a bit, you know," I remark blithely as I swing open the door. "Exaggerates everything."

I'm treated to a scene of shock. John's face runs the comical gamut from astounded to enraged in a matter of seconds. Mary's lips are pressed together in macabre amusement, and their therapist—her name escapes me—looks nothing short of flabbergasted. Her muttered stammering of "H-how…? It was locked!" is drowned out by John's borderline-unhinged laughter.

"Perfect! Just what every psych evaluation needs: a touch of insanity."

Well, that's a bit rude. I frown at him.

"Always so inaccurate, John. This is couple's therapy. No one is testing you for psychological instability. Though, admittedly, I would probably advise against exposing certain dangerous predispositions of yours. Especially in this setting—"

"SHUT-UP!"

I never before appreciated just how much that vein in his forehead bulges when he's angry.

"Violent outbursts." I nod knowingly and point at the therapist's notebook, an indication for her to write it down.

Before John strangles me—which, presumably, is his desire, judging by the way his hands are twisting in midair—Mary interrupts.

"Sherlock, why are you wearing your pajamas?"

I look down and take in my bare feet and bathrobe.

"It must have slipped my mind. I was in quite the hurry to get here."

"And just why are you here?" John's tone has taken on a baffling and wonderful layering of patience and frustration, a cadence he only seems to assume around me.

"Thought I'd pop in and say hello." My attention wanes as I begin scanning the room.

"Lovely," John replies with heavy sarcasm. "This is typical Sherlock Holmes: just deciding to show up when he pleases, other people be damned."

"Oh, sort of like you?" Mary interjects. "Like how you _decided_ to forgive me? And then _decided _to change your mind? But I guess that's your _privilege_ though."

I raise my eyebrows and nod as I fiddle with the things on her desk, picking them up and inspecting them.

"That's different." John's under pressure. He's going to say something he'll regret. "Sherlock's inconvenient at times," I wince at that, but he doesn't notice, "but you…you're," it's coming, I can tell, "you're bloody unbearable!" There it is. A bit not good.

"Unbearable?!"

"Yes, Mary. Unbearable. I can't bear it. I can't _bear _it."

"Can't bear what?" The therapist looks perturbed. John, chest heaving, doesn't answer her, but the rest of us already know what he means. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies._

"You forgave Sherlock, and he faked his death!"

_Traitor_. I pause in the middle of running my fingers over the frames of the paintings hanging around the office and shoot her a mutinous glare. She shrugs in apology, but I can see the distress underneath. John is seething now.

"Well, Mary, _you_ faked an entire life."

With a sigh, I roll my eyes and glance back at the therapist. She has been woefully neglected in this conversation, I feel.

"So dramatic. Likes to hold on to things. I can't imagine how miserable it is to be his therapist." She opens her mouth to respond, but I turn away from her and begin inspecting the underside of her lampshade. "He does have his uses, however. Can prove quite…illuminating at times."

"For the love of…Shut up and get the HELL out of here!" He's on his feet now, and I dance slightly out of his reach.

"Likes to pick fights, too. In fact, I believe he started a particularly nasty one with Mrs. Watson just yesterday morning."

"It was about sleeping arrangements," Mary offers helpfully. John turns back to her, a defensive hunch to his shoulders.

"It's sort of difficult to sleep when you have nightmares, only to wake up and realize that the cause of them is lying right next to you."

I stop in the middle of casing the room and stare at him. He spares me a fleeting look before doing a double take.

"And now he does that." He's pointing at me, his finger directed right where the bullet hole was. Right where my hand is currently pressed. "Because you shot him!" The vein is bulging still, and Mary is looking at me with horror. "Because that's what you do, or did, or whatever: you kill people!"

A gasp from the therapist tells me that John clearly hasn't filled her in on that aspect of his life—what _does_ he tell that woman, then? I shake my head and let my arms dangle by my sides.

"You've killed people, too, John. In fact, we all have now!" I perhaps sound a little too enthused, considering how appalled the therapist looks at that declaration. Awkwardly, I clear my throat.

"I killed people because it was my job. What you two did was murder."

"Murder for a very good reason."

"Do enlighten me."

"Love."

"She shot you out of love?"

"Well, no. She was going to shoot Magnussen out of love. I just got in the way."

"I don't understand."

"The baby! The baby! Clearly, once she found out she was pregnant, she panicked. Had to protect her family, keep her secrets buried. Prevent her past from destroying her future."

"And you finished the job for her, did you?"

"It was what I vowed to do. Whatever it took."

John blinks hard, and Mary wipes a tear from her eye.

"Don't hold on to the bitterness, John. You'll regret it. We're not going to live forever, and let's be honest; with our lifestyle, we're probably not going to live for very long. And when the end comes, you won't get much warning. If you _do_ get to say goodbye, it won't be the romantic scene you'd think. You'll be lucky to get a handshake in. So, don't leave her in doubt of your love now."

As they process that, I bend over and pull a microphone from underneath the chair John vacated earlier. "And now, John, I do believe your hour's up."

Numbly, John and Mary file out of the room, and I close the door behind us, leaving the therapist with eyes and mouth agape. We wait for the lift to arrive, and I can feel John's hard stare. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"You'll be lucky to get a handshake in," he parrots my words back to me. "So that moment by the plane? Did you know you that was goodbye…for good?"

"You knew it too, John." He just looks at me, chest heaving as though he's still waiting for an explanation. With a sigh, I look him hard in the eyes. "Mycroft said it was a six-month mission. A terminal mission."

"Unbelievable!" He (unnecessarily) jabs the call button again, and Mary gives my arm a quick pat.

"I just always thought you'd come back," he mutters, and we all pretend that he's talking to the wall.

* * *

><p>We walk out of the building a little stiffly, not quite able to look at one another. There is a very conspicuous gap between John's hand and Mary's. The back of his neck is stiff, and there is a rigid set to his shoulders. Discomfort ripples among the three of us as we stand shoulder to shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk looking for a cab. John is practically vibrating with the aftershocks of our meeting. I'm feeling a little shell-shocked myself.<p>

Mary, on John's other side, is as unfathomable as ever. Out of the corner of my eye, I cautiously glance over at John, hard-eyed, jaw-clenched, lips-pursed, John. I clear my throat and open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head infinitesimally, and I close my mouth again.

A cab is trundling toward us, and I step forward to flag it down. Suddenly, John's hand shoots out and grabs my shoulder. I freeze at his touch, and I know that the expression I assume is what John calls my "does-not-compute face." Falteringly, I raise a hand as though to fold it over the grip on my shoulder. Halfway through the upwards journey, I halt in my motion and land my hand on my chest instead. I barely even notice that I'm doing it.

John rests his head against his extended arm, but he doesn't let go. The scene feels strangely intimate in the middle of this damp, dreary road. It suddenly dawns on me that we all seem to be holding our breath. People bustle around us, seemingly unaware of the significance of what's happening here.

Shaking, John squeezes my shoulder and then drops his hand, bringing it to intertwine with Mary's. Relief is palpable among us as I turn to face them. Again, I open my mouth. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to say, but I feel the need to say _something_. I've been spending too much time with these people. Their tendency to fill the air with _words, words, words_ is rubbing off on me.

Before I can articulate anything, a sleek, black car pulls up beside us.

"Of course," I mutter.

The door opens, and we slide inside.

"Twice in one day, Mycroft?"

"I must have missed you."

I flick his microphone towards him.

"You might need to do some damage control. I believe John's therapist might want to have us all committed."

"Someone's already been dispatched," Mycroft replies, sounding bored. He pulls out his phone and pays us no more attention. That gold band glints in the pale sunlight streaming through the window. The tires churn over the pavement. _Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies. Secrets and lies, _they seem to say.

After we've been dropped at Baker Street, I race up the stairs to check the blog. John and Mary follow after me, and I see Mary's eyes already running across the living room. No doubt figuring out how to discreetly check my various hiding spots.

"Brilliant!" I exclaim as I open a new message.

"Got a case?"

"Yes, John, it would seem that I finally do. Now, get out. I have to pack."

"Where are you going?"

"America."

* * *

><p><strong>I plan on writing primarily from Sherlock or John's point-of-view with other characters' viewpoints occasionally interspersed. We'll see how it goes...<strong>

**Thank you so much for reading, and all of the feedback has been lovely! xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

_"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way. I don't think."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>3. It Kills Me to Know What You Can't Hide<span>

"America?"

I plant my hands on my hips and blow the air out of my cheeks. He's rushing around with the same dynamism that consumes him when he's on a case. But every now and then, just for the smallest second, he'll hesitate. It's almost like he's forgotten what he's doing, except that he doesn't look disoriented. He doesn't even seem to notice it. The strange, stuttering movements have just been integrated into his normal pattern of movement. Except that it's not normal. It's very, very strange. Especially because he usually moves with such purpose.

"Yes, John. That's what I said, isn't it?"

Well, at least that's still the same. Rolling my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose and shoot Mary an exasperated look before remembering that we're supposed to be fighting right now. But she gives me a small, concerned smile, and for a moment, I allow myself to appreciate the solidarity between us. Which Sherlock promptly interrupts by suddenly deciding to be chivalrous. He breaks in between us to help Mary out of her coat.

Me, he ignores. He does that more often than not now.

"And what are you doing over there?"

"Missing persons case. Quite tricky. Been working on it for almost a month now. Finally got a lead."

I shut the door behind me and run my hand over my face. I feel conspicuous just standing in the middle of the room, but navigating around the whirlwind that is Sherlock feels like a minefield that I want to avoid. Mary brushes past me unconcernedly and steers herself easily around him and into his chair.

She has started to replace me as the calm in his storm, and I'm just out of touch. But then, I guess she's always been more his speed.

Blanching slightly, Mary grabs her stomach and shifts herself into a more comfortable position.

"Are you alright?"

In between his slapdash packing, he's been watching her from the side of his eye. He's at her side now, and he drops a hand on her shoulder. The gesture has the same faltering quality as his other actions, but he doesn't immediately move away. Mary sits with one hand still across her stomach. The other, she brings up to clasp the hand that Sherlock has resting on her shoulder.

He stands faithfully beside her, an unwavering pillar of devotion. Were he an ordinary man, his capacity to forgive would be absolutely astounding. But this is Sherlock. And he sees no need to forgive because he feels no need to blame. If it were any other man, it would be an extraordinary display of human compassion and empathy. But it's not. It's cold, hard logic.

"Mary?" he prompts. She has been sitting quietly the whole time, seemingly without having heard him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches her and waits for her answer.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine." She shoots him a small smile that he stiffly returns.

I can't understand it, but something about the image of the two of them feels unnatural. And then it hits me. He's not fully looking at her. He's trying to be comforting, but it doesn't come across that way at all. He's clasping her shoulder but staring at the ground. Still, I can't help but sense a certain level of intimacy, like there's a communion between them in that small touch. I feel like an intruder on this little scene between my best friend and my wife, and I hate it. Everyone is in the wrong place.

With a shake of my head, I turn away and begin cobbling together some tea.

Silence descends as Sherlock moves away from her, still watching her sideways. He does that all the time, I realize, as I review all of their past interactions. He never looks her dead on, straight in the face. I wonder if Mary sees this. Probably. She's trained to notice that sort of thing. But then, so is Sherlock.

His brain is a marvelous thing, and he's largely trained it to control his bodily impulses, but there are some things that even he can't overcome. Involuntary actions—breathing, blinking—have plagued him since birth. Lately, however, these slips of control are becoming more pronounced. I think of his hand on his chest, the way he won't look at Mary, the abortive motions he keeps making. Something's off with him.

Though he's swaggering about now, I find that I'm not as self-assured simply because he doesn't seem to be. He lacks the surety of movement that he had before, and it worries me. There's a halted, mechanical quality to him. It's so subtle, that I'm positive that only I am aware of it. Even out of the three people in this room.

"I just don't know why he's being like this," Mary sighs as though there was only a moment's pause since her last words instead of several minutes.

"Mm," he gives her another cautious glance. "Maybe he's going through the grieving process. First, he was in denial. Now, he's angry."

I don't bother reminding them that I'm still here. They know. They always do this. I also don't bother to point out how inept his analogy is. He doesn't understand human emotions, so he tries to categorize them in the general concepts he's been able to memorize. Mary, however, is nodding as though it makes perfect sense. She turns to me with light dancing in her eyes. Even though what she did turns me cold, warmth still emanates from her, draws me in.

"Alright, John, so let's move right on the bargaining. You go with Sherlock to America, and when you come back, you give us an actual chance."

My heart lifts in spite of everything. Of course she would realize that I would want to go with him. I've been dying to work a case with him, but every time I turn up at his flat, he's out or he's too busy to take notice of me. It's like he's learned to function without me. He'd incorporated me into his life once, and just as easily, he had phased me out.

As though confirming this, he gives me a fleeting look. His hand is on his chest again. His grip is so tight that I can see his tendons bulging. I wonder if he leaves bruises.

"He can't go. You're pregnant." His tone is flat, almost accusatory.

"Well that's the nice thing about babies, Sherlock," she smiles at him amusedly, and with the slightest jerk of his chin, he risks a glance in her direction. "They keep for a while."

She chuckles and pats her stomach. When they make eye contact, he flinches away, the motion completely at odds with her kind words. Hurt blossoms across her face. But again, he seems unaware of doing anything out of the ordinary. He just continues on with their conversation in perfectly innocuous tones.

"Well, we shouldn't be gone for more than a week, tops, but are you sure you can spare him? I really don't have need of him the way that you do."

"Always trying to unload me," I mutter. Neither of them seems to hear me, but the hand on his chest does twitch for a moment before he realizes it's there and drops it.

"_Don't have need of him_?" Mary repeats with a rueful laugh. "You two are so entrenched that you spy on one another's lives when you can't be directly involved in them. I mean, the amount of questions I've had to answer each of you about the other!" Shaking her head, she looks at us exasperatedly. "Would you two just go already and give me a break?"

* * *

><p>I thought that living with Sherlock was hellish. That was before I travelled with him.<p>

After we agreed that I would join him on his little venture across the pond, Mary and I left so I could pack. At some point on the cab right home, our hands had found each other, and I didn't feel particularly bothered to let go. And I thought, maybe, maybe, we could fix this. Tranquility had descended over me, and things felt like they were falling into place.

Then, Sherlock showed up without so much as a 'hello' and ushered Mary and me into our car. And despite his earlier reservations about the welfare of Mary or our unborn child, he didn't seem to find a cause for concern as he slid into the driver's seat. What we were treated to after that was two hours of terrifying, twisting, turning driving on a meandering route through the suburbs and back roads until we finally, miraculously ended up at the airport.

Things had only gotten stranger from there. Instead of the roughly seven-hour flight that I'd anticipated, our journey was a chaotic jump from one country in Europe to another. At each stop, he would produce sketchier and sketchier forms of identification, warning me to keep my real passport hidden. "Wiggins has his uses and his connections," he'd cryptically murmured the first time this happened. And he would only pay for our tickets with cash. I was at once extremely alarmed and even more suspicious.

Not wanting to draw attention to us or risk being overheard, I'd kept my mouth shut. But I had started to wonder if the week he'd allotted for this trip was dedicated exclusively to flying aimlessly from place to place. When we were finally on a New-York bound flight from somewhere in Lithuania, I looked over at him, completely unamused.

"I would recommend getting a travel agent next time, Sherlock. "

With a smirk, he'd glanced over at me.

"I got quite good at travelling abroad when I was away, you know." He'd paused for a moment, and we both sat in quiet contemplation of that. We never talked about the fall. It had suddenly occurred to me that I was walking on eggshells in every aspect of my life. "I got especially good at travelling undetected," he'd continued, perhaps a beat too late.

"And are we keeping our little vacation a secret from anyone in particular or…?"

"Primarily, we are from Moriarty. But Mycroft as well. I doubt he'll approve once he figures it out."

"They both have eyes on you then?"

"Mm. Who do you think put that microphone in your therapist's office?"

"For once, I hope it was Mycroft."

"That one was his, but Moriarty's was in there before that. Mycroft had his people remove it once they found out about it."

"How thoughtful of him." Mycroft had always encroached on our lives, but I was still irked at this level of intrusion. "Wait, so why does this have to be a secret? What is this case, exactly?"

"You'll see," he'd replied enigmatically. Despite my constant prodding, he had refused to answer me, and I had fallen asleep in annoyance.

Now, we are standing the lobby of a very posh, very expensive hotel. I am tired, disheveled, jetlagged, and extremely annoyed. Sherlock is just as unforthcoming now as he was on the plane, and I find that I don't have much patience left for him. As we head to our room, (of course Sherlock only got one room) I pointedly give him a wide berth. What I really want is some time to myself.

The room is a very nice suite with two beds, (thank God) and it's very clear that we're here on Mycroft's dime. I wonder how he got that kind of cash out from under his brother's nose. As I collapse onto the downy comfort of the bed, I find that I don't really care.

"Don't sleep, John. It's only noon here; you'll mess up your sleeping pattern."

"Sod off." It comes out muffled as I bury my head under the pillow.

"Get up. We have to go get you a suit, anyway."

"What?" I glare at him from under the blissful comfort.

"There's no time for bespoke, obviously, but we can get an off-the-rack one tailored nicely by tonight," he muses to himself, completely ignoring me.

"Sherlock," I say loudly, "what exactly do I need a suit for?"

"There's a rather large benefit going on here tonight. She's going to be there, and we need to look the part."

"Who's going to be there?"

He clasps his hands together and gives me a somewhat maniacal grin. "Our missing person."

* * *

><p>This whole thing is turning out to be not at all what I signed up for. Sherlock has regained some of his former confidence, but it feels forced, like he's putting on a mask. He holds me distantly now, and his remarks had become more and more cutting the closer to evening we got. The event started at eight, he had us dressed by seven, but wouldn't let us go down until half-past nine.<p>

With the careful use of Mycroft's credentials, he sneaks us into the event, and we are now in the middle of a massive ballroom, practically suffocating with people. I look up and see that there's a second story, and it forms a sort of balcony that runs the perimeter of the room. Even more people are up there, milling around and looking down at us.

Sherlock is on full alert now, predatorily scanning the room, and I can feel the contact high of his adrenaline take its effect on me. Though I'd never admit this to him, I missed this. So much.

After an hour of fruitless searching, doubt starts to set in.

"Sherlock, maybe she's not here."

"Of course she is. She just arrived."

And there, at the top of the stairs, I see her. The same high cheekbones, the same cruel beauty. She descends the staircase unassisted. She's always been like that: completely self-possessed and in control. I know she's beautiful, but it's not the kind of approachable beauty that attracts men. It's the uninviting and overawing kind of beauty that makes it very clear that if you try for her, you won't survive her.

Of course she would return like this. She and Sherlock must be soul mates. Infatuated with dramatics, they are. She looks like a movie star out of the nineteen twenties: glamorous and untouchable and not quite real. It all seems faintly ridiculous, but she sells it so well. Especially in a tight, black dress that leaves very little to the imagination.

A slow-building anger is forming behind the roar of disbelief I'm feeling, but I am currently too occupied with shock to deal with anything else. I'm not the only one staring, nor am I the only one with bulging eyes. But I do suspect that I'm the only one with my particular reason for awe.

Accusations begin to float to the forefront of my mind. Because the last time I checked, Irene Adler was dead. Opening my mouth, I turn to demand some answers from Sherlock, but in his typical fashion, he's disappeared. She's halfway down the stairs now, and I can feel her gaze on me. I lock eyes with her, and her crimson lips turn up into a half-smile before she disappears into the rush of the crowd.

Great, well, she's probably off flirting with Sherlock, or _at_ Sherlock, or whatever the hell it is that they do together. The thought makes me irrationally angry, and I decide that it's time for a drink. Or two.

She finds me at the bar a while later with my defenses down and my wits a little more dulled than I would like. Several pairs of eyes are watching us, and I can practically feel the burn of their curiosity. And I just know that they're wondering why someone who looks the way she does is talking to someone who looks the way that I do. They wouldn't question it if it were Sherlock standing here. They both have a kind of alien, but complementary beauty. _Did I just call Sherlock beautiful_?Shaking my head, I wonder where that thought came from. Probably the alcohol.

I swill my drink and glare at her over the rim of my glass.

"How's Sherlock?" The acid burn in my stomach turns my words caustic as I fling them at her.

She shrugs and waves down the bartender. "Well, he's not making an awful lot of sense right now, I'm afraid."

Fear is a hollow pit in my stomach, and my heart thrums loudly against my sternum.

"What did you do to him?"

I can't explain it, but being away from him right now is absolutely terrifying. The anxiety is always there, but usually, I'm able to repress it. The distance between us distresses me. Not just now, but always. Even after all this time, when he's not beside me, I worry that he's gone for good. Or that he will be very soon.

"Relax. He'll be fine in the morning." I've heard that before. The blood pounds in my head. "But I did give him a slightly more concentrated dose than the first one."

Pushing away from the bar, I look around frantically for him. Her hand grabs the crook of my elbow, and I fight to suppress violent urges.

"When he comes to, he'll want to talk to me. Didn't get very far with me tonight. Of course, that's his own fault. Business comes first, and his arrival interfered with a very important transaction of mine."

"So you drugged him?!"

Again, she shrugs.

"It's kind of our thing."

Luckily for us both, I see Sherlock in the corner of the room looking pale and panicked. Even from this distance, I can tell that he's losing control of his faculties. Roughly, I shake her off and shove through people. Desperately, I try to reach him.

When he spots me, he stumbles toward me, and I catch him easily.

"John," he moans. It's never _help_. It's always _John_.

He's trying to hold it together, but I know the babbling is coming. I drag him from the ballroom and into the hallway just outside the grand doors. His fingers are practically adhered to the front of my jacket, and I realize that I'm his anchor to reality. Naked fear is in his eyes, and it sends a spasm of panic through me.

He's going limp in my arms, and I know that I won't be able to get him up to the room like this. Instead, I pull him toward a nearby bench and take on the majority of his weight as I sit us down. He curls into me, and I naturally curve my arms around him. I can feel the sweat from his forehead against my shoulder as he leans against me.

"My body hurts, John. The Woman put a needle in me. She put a hole in me. I've got lots of holes in me. I put needles in me. I put holes in me. I've got lots of holes in me. But you don't know that. Mary said she wouldn't tell. She shot me. She put a hole in me. I've got lots of holes in me. I've got bone fragments in my veins. I can feel them coursing through me. Puncturing flesh. Making holes. Can you see them, John? Connect the dots. I'm leaking. No. I'm collapsing. Connect the dots. The lines draw the shapes of my cracks. Can you feel me crumbling?"

He's muttering against the fabric of my shirt. It's his inner monologue, his stream of consciousness. I try to shush him, but he's gone beyond recognition. I don't want to hear what he's saying because it scares me. And it hurts me. He pulls away and looks me full in the face. His fingers are prying at my jacket like he's trying to tether himself to me. His eyes are huge, and his pupils are blown wide with fear.

"I'm scared, John. Do you remember the last time I was scared? I do. This time it's worse. It's seeping out of me. Can you taste the fear? I can. It tastes like blood. But I don't have any blood left. He burned it all up. I'm bone dry. I'm ashes and dust. It comes off of me in vapors. I need something else to fill me up. Love. No. You can burn love. Cinders, ashes and dust. Dust to dust. She's dust. Because of Mycroft. He didn't kill her, but he did. He burned his heart out."

Tears are pouring down his cheeks. This is nothing like the first time she drugged him. The first time, he just inanely rambled and made vague insults and deductions. This time, it's freeform, terrifying admission. Half of it's unintelligible, but I can make sense of some of it. Or, at least, I can follow the general pattern of what he's saying. He's breaking down in my arms, and I don't know how to put him back together.

"Madness. It will consume me. Mercury madness is seeping in. It's caustic, John. I don't want it. Don't let the madness in here, John. My body hurts. Make it stop."

He seizes my hand and drags it up to his chest.

"I hurt. Can you feel it? _It hurts._ Make it stop. Don't let the madness in." His speech is breaking down, and I know that the worst of it is passing. "Don't let it in, John."

"I won't," I croak.

"Okay." I feel him relax and sag against me. "I hurt."

"I know."

"John." His eyes are desperate as they search mine. "Am I wrong?"

"Of course not." I have no idea what he's talking about, but my answer still feels like the truth. He's Sherlock. How could he ever be wrong?

"Good," he whispers. His limbs are still heavy, but his mind has stilled enough to allow him to focus on working with me somewhat as I guide him through the halls and into a lift. We ride the floors in silence. The only noise that breaks through the stillness is his ragged breathing. His head finds its way onto my shoulder.

Once we're back in the room, I settle him on the bed, pulling off his shoes and dropping them on the floor. His breathing is raspy and unsettled sounding, but it's starting to slow and even out. Just when I think he's asleep, his eyes drift open. His hands catch the front of my jacket again, and he pulls me back toward him. Automatically, my arms come to circle him.

"John. I'm sorry I left you. I always leave you behind. Except, I don't. I always take you with me. Right here." Clumsily, he taps his temple. "You're the voice in my head. I carry you with me. You fill me up. Yes. That's good. You fill me up, John."

I cradle him in my arms and smooth the hair away from his forehead. This unnerves me. I realize that I felt better when he was frantic. I could temper that. I was in control. But he's calm as he strips his mind bare before me. He doesn't seem to know he's talking, but he's smiling indolently at me as these revelations slip carelessly out through his lips. Though he's a mess of limbs in my arms, his bodily mass seems to be diminished. Everything is consumed by his brilliant mind.

Even me.

Especially me.

Boundaries between us are gone. _When did that happen?_ Mary was right. We are too entrenched in one another. _Stop cutting me out, Sherlock. It hurts._ Gently, I ease him out of his jacket and dress shirt, leaving him in a thin, cotton undershirt. I lay him down. He gives a tiny smile and rolls away from me. It pulls at something just below my ribs to see him looking so exposed and fragile. With a pang, I step away. Every part of my body that was in contact with him stings with his absence. He breathes the smallest of sighs, and I force myself to go to the other bed. A gulf is forming between us already. By morning, it will be a chasm again.

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><p><strong>Thanks if anyone read! xxx<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_"You look sad...when you think he can't see you."_

Sherlock POV

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><p><span>4. All the Monsters that Hide in My Head and Keep Me 'til Dawn<span>

**…**

I'm pinned to a bed. White sheets and hospital corners. Needles in my arms. Clicks and whirs of medical machines. The morphine drips and drips and drips. I can't feel anything. Gold glasses wink and glint above me. Magnussen. He's smiling pleasantly at me through his dead eyes. Calmly, methodically, he begins peeling back my skin, flaying it open. Red blood on the white sheets. He's looking inside me, seeing how I work. Finding my pressure points.

He beckons someone over, and Mary appears at my side. Her face is stoic as she studies me. They whisper together and she nods knowingly, pointing things out to him. I'm nothing more than a science experiment to them. _Do you see it, Mary—whatever it is you're looking for?_ A small, sad smile pulls at her lips. I seize up as cold metal makes contact with my body. Mycroft hovers above me now, face grim. Steadily, deliberately, with tweezers in hand, he begins pulling organs out of me. One by one, they leave me: kidneys, stomach, liver, lungs. _Take them all, Mycroft. I don't need them. I can live without them_.

"Where's the heart?" Mary and Magnussen peer into me, puzzled. For the first time, they look ruffled, worried. The morphine drips and drips and drips. "Close him up. He's nothing without his heart." I close my eyes, and all their faces melt away. I open them again, and I'm back at Baker Street. John is standing across from me. I can almost taste his horror. Walking forward, I reach for him. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

He flinches away from my touch, and my gaze falls on my hand. My skin is a patchwork of mismatched scraps. None of this is right. I'm not myself. Desperately, I claw at it, trying to get the foreign scraps off of me. I pull the skin off my arms like sleeves, hurtling the false flesh away from me. John is running toward me now, shouting unintelligible things. I tear at my back, trying to get it all off of me. I'm tearing myself apart. John's arms are around me now, pinning me down, holding me back. "Stop this. Stop it now!" _I can't, John, I can't._

**…**

_"Stop. Sherlock, stop it now!"_ I wake up paralyzed. I can't move my limbs. I can't breathe. Panic wells up, chokes off logic; quells rational thought. Disjointed observations assault me. Flashing red numbers on the alarm clock. The hum of the heater. A thin strip of light under the door. The drugs are still in my system, confusing me, holding my mind hostage. _Context. Context_. The bed's too small and the sheets are too stiff. The air is stagnant and stale. I'm not at home. I'm not in London. Where am I? I'm here. With John. _John. Where are you, John? _

Wretched, gasping noises tear into the tiny, quiet space. Dimly, I realize that they're coming from me. I'm still thrashing around, my body has taken on a will of its own. _"Stop this. Stop it now."_ Are the words in my head? No. They're coming from John. Wonderful, familiar John. I jerk around and look for him in the dark.

"It's alright. I've got you. I've got you." There's warmth at my back and surrounding me. It's John. I'm encased in his arms. He's kneeling on my bed and holding me together. There's a shake that's not coming from me. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

As the tension seeps out of my body, his arms melt away. I feel his loss. Like a bandage being ripped off. My skin stings. We're both breathing heavily as he runs his hands over his face, wiping off the sweat. _Is it only sweat? Too dark to tell._ Glancing over, he makes sure I'm awake and alright. He's still sitting on my bed.

I sigh and begin cataloging everything I can make sense of. Obviously, John navigated me up to our room from the ballroom. That would have happened after The Woman drugged me, which is last thing I clearly remember. After that, all I can recollect are swirling colors and opaque thoughts. And pain, so much pain. And John. Wincing slightly, I begin to register the soreness in my arms where he was holding me. Somewhat guiltily, he watches as I massage my shoulders and roll my neck.

"Sorry. I had to restrain you. You were thrashing around, and I thought you were going to strangle yourself in the sheets."

I nod and take in the destruction of the bedding. I don't want to think about things being ripped apart. My shirt is sticking to me, and my hair is coated against my forehead. Despite the sweat, I feel cold. So cold. And clammy. John makes a halted motion to grab my shoulder and stops halfway through.

"You were clawing at your back in your sleep. I think you scratched yourself pretty badly," he says gently. "Can I see?"

At my nod, he leads me into the bathroom. My motions are awkward and slow, but he's patient with me. We both squint as he flips on the light. Blinking in disorientation, I push down the toilet lid and sit on it, turning my back to him. Hesitant fingertips linger at the hem of my shirt and nudge slightly at the fabric. For some reason, he stops. _It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay._

He still doesn't move to take off my shirt, so I grip the front of it and begin pushing up on it. Remembering himself, he pulls it the rest of the way off. My skin rises with tiny pinpricks against the cold. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I feel my shoulders tense. I feel terribly, terribly exposed. This is unbearably intimate. I hear his hiss as my back comes under his scrutiny in the fluorescent light. _You don't like it as much as you thought you would, do you, John? Having me back? I'm not a grave you can romanticize anymore. I'm a flesh-and-blood person. And that's very, very inconvenient for you._

"Christ," he says faintly as his fingers trace over the map of scars on my back. His fingers are soft on my skin but leave a burning path in their wake. Though they're there in a medical capacity, every touch feels like a caress. Through the haze of the drugs, my tactile senses are heightened and confused.

My muscles cramp as they seize up from the cold and from the tension. The plastic is hard beneath me, sending bruises up my spine. My toes curl over the cool, porcelain edge of the lid. And then, there's John, with his warm, whispery touch.

"How are you feeling?"

"My back hurts, now that you mention it."

"Well, you did manage to get a few scrapes in there, but none of them are too deep."

He begins cleaning up the blood.

"I feel tired, too." As I say it, I realize how true the words are. Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids and floods through my body.

"That'll be the drugs. She said she gave you a more concentrated dose this time."

"Well, it certainly felt more potent." I give an involuntary shiver as I remember the wall of images that had assaulted me after she had plunged the needle into my neck. I know I had lost hours to the crippling, befuddling, mess of chemically-induced visions, but that's about all I know. Memories and dreams don't want to separate themselves, and I don't know what I lived and what I imagined. "She'll be around in the morning to survey the damage, no doubt."

John makes a small, disapproving noise as he covers up the scratches that I managed to gouge in my sleep.

"Well, that takes care of the _cuts_," I can hear him balk. _Don't ask, John. There are some things you don't want to know. _"Sherlock, where did the scars come from?"

I shift uncomfortably.

"Moriarty's network is made up of a lot of dangerous men."

A sigh erupts across my back, and I start as his hot breath jumps over my skin.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"All of it. Any of it. I mean, God, I didn't know…didn't understand…"

_Oh, John_.

"Why, Sherlock?"

I can tell from the quiet strain in his voice that he's asked the question many times before, and I can hear the pain in it that tells me that he doesn't really want the answer. Not right now. Not in this stark, white space.

"Let me see," he says suddenly, authoritatively.

He's in front of me now, squatting down so that he's eye-level with me. My knees are a barrier between us. He's reaching around them and pulling at my hands that are somehow planted against my chest again.

"Let me see," he repeats, his face forbidding. "Where she shot you. Let me see."

My feet slither to the floor, but my hands stay where they are. Inexplicably, I can feel my heart racing beneath them. I shake my head in time with the throbbing. But John is insistent. "You always do that. Like it hurts you. You told me that it does. Is something wrong? Is it infected? I can help you. Let me see."

_You can't help me, John. You can't make it go away. It's okay, though. It's okay, John. It's okay. _I let him pull my hands away. His face remains impassive as he takes in the small, whitish-pink pucker of skin. His fingers seem to stutter as he reaches forward. His eyes race over the expanse of my chest, taking in the ugly seam where they cut me open. He looks as though he might vomit. I'm feeling distinctly nauseous myself. Under his gaze, my skin starts to itch. It burns, like it's splitting apart. I wrap my arms around my sides to hold myself together. His hand still hovers between us, our skin a breath apart. A part of me—one that is stronger than I would like to admit—longs for the contact. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before dropping to the ground. I give a deep breath that chokes off a bit at the end.

"You have to forgive, her, John."

He gives a small, almost undetectable nod. But it's not in agreement. Wordlessly, he hands me my shirt, and I slip it back on. We both stand at the same time. Awkwardly, we move around each other, keeping careful distance between us. There is static in the dead space that separates us. We don't breach it, and we don't talk.

As John washes his hands, I move woodenly out of the bathroom. I stumble slightly and catch myself against the doorframe. His head shoots up in alarm, and he reaches over to steady me.

Grimacing, I find my footing. "Whatever she gave me really took a toll."

"Well, if there were other drugs in your system, it could be having unanticipated effects."

I freeze. We stare evenly at one another. He knows.

"I asked you if you had relapsed, and you told me no."

"Actually, I chose not to answer. Besides, it was less of a relapse and more of a...sustained capitulation."

He sags against the bathroom counter. He doesn't want to have this fight. I grab my chest to stop the surge of pain. His hand is there again, suspended in the air between us. His fingers curl into his palm as though he's contemplating pulling my hand away. Instead, he turns back to washing his hands.

I push off from the doorway and careen into the bedroom. Moving leadenly in the dark, I go back to my bed and sit on the edge of it. He's still washing his hands. He's scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing them. _Not everything can come clean. _ After a few minutes, the water cuts off, and a few seconds later, so does the bathroom light. Suddenly, I'm hyperaware of his presence. I can feel him hovering in the dark. I can hear the gears turning in his head as he debates with himself over something. I can sense him moving towards me.

The bed sinks slightly as he settles beside me. We still don't touch, but we are so close that every nerve in my arm is tingling. His body heat washes over me. My body pulses as I absorb it.

"Are you going to go back to sleep?"

"No." I don't say why, but we both know anyway. We both know what lurks in the depths of my mind. We both know that there are monsters just behind my lids. He's been seeing these horrible things for years. _Now I see them too, John._

"No. No, neither am I."

We keep sitting in the dark. Out of nowhere, his hand shoots out and clasps my knee. It's a heavy, dead weight on me. _Why are you doing this, John? You never touch me. Unless I'm hurt. _ I can feel him shaking. Just a slight tremor. _ It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay. No one can see this. It'll be like it never happened._

He clears his throat, and I jump slightly. Night has stripped our defenses bare. I feel raw: all ragged edges and frayed nerves.

"Was it a nightmare?"

"All dreams are nightmares, being that they are absent of logical thought."

"Was it a bad one?"

"They're all bad."

We're speaking in stiff, stilted tones. Our voices have a calculated, dead quality to them. Like we're pretending that this conversation is as inconsequential as the weather. With the hand that isn't on my knee, John rubs his eyes.

"When did they start?"

"A month ago."

The air compresses around us. The drugs seem to be inhibiting my breathing. I'm having a hard time swallowing, and my head is thrumming with the pressure that is building in my nasal cavity and shooting up through my temples.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock?"

"Why did I do what?"

"All of it. Any of it."

Instead of answering, I move away and lie down. His hand makes a dull thud as it falls away from me. The dark shape that is John starts moving away.

"No. Stay where you are." _Stay exactly where you are. _I don't meant to say it, but I can tell that it hurts him. He has very little capacity for retention, but he has undoubtedly committed that last phone call to memory.

"Why?"

There are so many things that he could be asking, but I answer the simplest of them.

"Because that's what John Watson is for." I don't want to say any of these words, but they are pulled out of me.

I don't know how long we stay there, but I know it's long enough for him to think that I've fallen back asleep. With a heavy sigh, he stands up. He doesn't go immediately to bed, however. Instead, he comes to linger by me.

"Nothing touches you, Sherlock. Nothing. Not death. Not suffering. Not other people."

_You don't believe that, John._

"No. I'm sorry." He huffs in apology. "You just act like they don't."

My chest pounds.

"So why did you do it, Sherlock? And why didn't you take me with you?" He's angry now. That's good. It's better than the pity, and it's better than the pain. "Why did you do it?"

_For you, John. All for you. You're the loose thread and the snag all at once. The cornerstone and the flaw in the foundation. The solution and the miscalculation._ But that's okay. Because it's John. It's okay.

* * *

><p><strong>My main thrust thus far has been characterization, but the plot's definitely about to pick up. With the arrival of The Woman, things are bound to get...messy.<strong>

**This chapter sort of leads into the next, so I just went ahead and posted them at the same time.**

**Thanks for reading! xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

_"I am...Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do."_

No POV (Dialogue Only)

* * *

><p><span>5. We're Just Friends, Tangled up in Loose Ends<span>

~One Month Earlier~

"It's been quite the project cleaning up the mess you've made, little brother."

"Well, idle hands have never served you well, so I suppose I did you a favor. Besides, you always love to be on the ground floor of crises."

"Speaking of…you're familiar with the concept and mechanics of implosions, are you not?"

"Ye-es."

"Enlighten me."

"Intense outer pressures act on an object, causing it to collapse in on itself. You, with your dramatic inclinations, are no doubt tempted to draw certain parallels."

"The metaphor practically writes itself, Sherlock."

"_Enlighten me._"

"It surely doesn't need telling that you have certain self-destructive tendencies. We are only as strong as the materials that make us up. Right now, I'm not entirely sure what's holding you together, but your weaknesses are glaringly obvious. And it won't take much force to trigger a collapse."

"Which brings us to a more important point of discussion: Moriarty. That was _very_ convenient timing for him to make a reappearance."

"I suppose you think I had something to do with it."

"You told me that his corpse on the roof was dealt with, but you were rather sparse on the details."

"It seems I have a bit of a confession to make. That day you jumped, Moriarty wasn't quite dead. But he was willing to play it for a while."

"So, you helped fake two suicides in one day. That's quite a feat; even for you."

"Indeed. I even managed to hide it from you. Granted, there were other things you were dealing with at the time, but still, it took a certain amount of finesse."

"So Moriarty wanted to disappear for a while…why?"

"As you know, only a desperate man fakes his death. A man who has something to hide—or hide from."

"Who could he possibly have to hide from?"

"Magnussen. Apparently, he had some very dangerous information on Moriarty. Information he threatened to release should Moriarty cross him."

"Moriarty must have had something equally dangerous on Magnussen if neither one of them was eager to pull the trigger. There they were: twonuclear weapons, trained on one another, waiting to fire. Mutually assured destruction."

"And I had control over them both. Which is why I told you not to go against Magnussen."

"You didn't honestly think that either one of them was going to tell _you_ their secrets. Did you?"

"It was worth a try. Anyway, whatever he had on Magnussen is irrelevant now, being that—thanks to you—he's dead. But a pressure point on Moriarty…"

"Admittedly, that would prove helpful right now, but you already had a pressure point on him in the form of Magnussen. So, if you had leverage on him, why help him? Why make me go through with the plan?"

"Your goal to destroy his network was a worthwhile endeavor, and as long as I had him neutralized, I figured it would be beneficial to allow you to bring your plan to completion."

"Two years, Mycroft. I was gone for two years. You let me throw my life away for TWO YEARS?"

"Kindly sit down, Sherlock. I didn't _let _you do anything. To date, you have now thrown your life away _twice_. And we both know that you didn't have my ambitions of serving the greater good when you did so."

"The _greater good_?"

"Yes, Sherlock. What I do is very difficult, but I am able to do it because I am not impeded by sentimentality. Even when it comes to you."

"Believe me, _brother_, I figured that out when you put me on a plane to my death. Oh, but don't worry; that was _hours_ ago. I've moved on by now."

"I should hope so. You've got a war to fight, and I'm the only ally you've got left."

"Hm."

"What? Don't tell me you still think the good doctor will be coming to your aid. He's got a family to think about now. One that doesn't involve you. As you know from experience, he's loyal to a fault. He will put his wife and child above everything else. Even if she did shoot you."

"Figured that out, did you?"

"You had me do a full background check on her the moment you escaped from the hospital. What else was I supposed to think?"

"Have you managed to find out anything about who she was before she was Mary Morstan?"

"No."

"How disappointing. Though, I shouldn't be surprised. After all, it took you _ages_ to dismantle the life of Richard Brook."

"Yes. Her life story has been thoroughly cloaked. And you killed the only person who would have been able to shed light on the topic."

"And in so doing, would have endangered her life."

"What do you care? She endangered yours. But you didn't do it for her, did you? There is no limit to what you're willing to do for John Watson. Because you made him integral to your structure."

"He's my friend, and nothing more."

"Denial? You're better than that. You've gone to unimaginable lengths for him."

"Don't be ridiculous Mycroft—"

"It's not _I_ being ridiculous, brother dear. You have invested far too much into that relationship. You are willing to go too far. There was a time when he would have done the same, but you ruined that when you disappeared for two years. I told you to loop him in, but you wouldn't listen. You never listen, and I am never wrong. I hope you hear me now because there are only so many times you can cheat death.

"Forget John Watson. He forgot you. He moved on. While your little reunion was nice, it can't last. Leaving him behind this time won't break him like it did the first time. But staying around will break you. It's pointless destruction, Sherlock."

"Need I remind you that implosions don't destroy anything but the object that falls?"

"But you forget that it is I who has to sift through the rubble."

* * *

><p><strong>I've just realized that I've been incredibly remiss in acknowledging the inspiration behind my work and chapter titles. Just so I can give credit where credit is due, (also because someone sent me a message asking about them) I'll provide a list now.<strong>

**"A Burning Reminder"—Death Cab for Cutie, "Home is a Fire"**  
><strong>"Sooner or Later, It All Comes Apart"—Ian Axel, "Fall on Me"<strong>  
><strong>"The Darker the Secret, the Harder You Keep It"—Jack's Mannequin, "At Full Speed"<strong>  
><strong>"It Kills Me to Know What You Can't Hide"—Stages and Stereos, "More Than Memories"<strong>  
><strong>"All the Monsters that Hide in My Head and Keep Me 'til Dawn"—Jack's Mannequin, "The Last Straw"<strong>  
><strong>"We're Just Friends, Tangled up in Loose Ends"—Ed Sheeran, "I'm Glad I'm Not You"<strong>

**I'm not saying that the lyrics within the songs specifically pertain to their corresponding chapters, but I just found the phrasing therein to be particularly striking. I love music and can reconcile myself to almost any genre as long as I like the lyrics, so those tend to be what I focus on. What can I say? I'm a words girl! From now on, I'll just include the song at the end of every chapter.**

**As always, a big thank you to anyone who read! xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

_"Go, John. Go now."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>6. We Met Beside a Landmine, Waiting for the Wind to Blow<span>

I meant to watch him through the night. I don't know how long I'd stood there, at his side, staring at him while he'd slept, but I hadn't been able to tear myself away. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel my chest moving with the thrust of it. I had gone lightheaded as my body throbbed with the force of my blood pulsing to the tips of my fingers, turning them numb. I had been wrenched between the desire to go to him and the desire to get as far away as possible. In the end, the two urges had cancelled each other out, and I'd just stood there for agonizing minutes.

Finally, I'd managed to drag myself back to my own bed, propping myself against the headboard so that I was facing him. I meant to stay awake and watch him, just to make sure he was still there. It had been a comfort to be able to do that in the dark, where he wouldn't know I was doing it. I used to watch him all the time when he'd first come back—just to reassure myself—but I'd stopped once he'd started mocking me for it.

Just another reason why he was insufferable: he was always taking the heaviest things inside of me and making them trivial.

I thought I had gone crazy when I saw him in that restaurant; thought my desperate longings had made him manifest. I would wake from dreams thinking he was still dead. It would be well past midnight when I'd wake, but I'd text him anyway, needing a response. And, invariably, no matter the hour, it would come. Sometimes, I still think I'm crazy. But last night, there, in that bed, I'd known he was real, and I couldn't bear to look away.

I must have fallen asleep, though, because I wake up with my arm asleep and a crick in my neck. His bed is empty. I try to push down the anxiety that always accompanies his absence. I only relax when I hear him moving around in the other room of the suite. Distantly, I hear a door opening, and the fear's back again. But long after it closes, I can still him hear him in the room. The tension in me partly releases. _It's okay. He's still here. He hasn't left me behind._

With a groan, I push out of bed and stumble for the bathroom. I turn the on hot water and let it run until the steam fills the room. The air feels sticky with the memories from last night. The things that we said and the things that we didn't hover around me. I feel like I'm choking on them. Rubbing my shoulder, I step into the shower and let the heat release the remaining tension in my back.

Closing my eyes, I try not to think. It's quite a difficult thing to do, despite what Sherlock believes. Little thoughts keep nudging at the back of my mind, but I don't indulge them. I can't; because if I do, then I will have to acknowledge everything he'd said to me. And right now, it's too much information to sift through. Especially when I know he'll be watching me grapple with it all.

Suddenly, I'm afraid to get out of the shower, scared to face him. What if something has been altered between us? Our relationship feels like it's on a knife's edge. So much of who we are to one another has been forged in dangerous situations. But this is a new kind of danger, and it feels like one that we can't possibly survive. Lately, all of our conversations are fraught, our interactions laced with strain and urgency. Our lives have been at risk before, as have our health and possibly our sanity, but what we stand to lose now is much more terrifying. I wonder if he knows.

_Sherlock. Is that why you keep pushing me away?_

Finally, I turn off the water. Time to be brave.

Toweling myself dry, I pull clothes on without really paying attention to what I'm doing. Sherlock's suitcase is on the floor at the foot of his bed, overflowing with his careless packing. Morbid curiosity seizes me, and before I can change my mind, I stumble toward it. I don't know what I expect to find, but I rip through it, tossing aside clothes. There's nothing here. Feeling slightly ashamed of myself, I put everything back and flip the lid closed. Though there was no discernable order to the mess, I know he'll be able to tell I've gone through it.

I wonder how it is that we've come to this: both of us so hurt. And we're doing it to ourselves and to each other. And I have a sinking feeling that I don't even know the half of it. _What's worse, _I wonder,_ the pain we cause knowingly or the pain we cause unknowingly?_ I'm worried, I realize, always worried now that I'm going to cause him some harm with everything I say and do. And I'm equally worried that he's going to do the same thing to me.

Tempting as it is, I can't hide in here forever. With a resigned grunt, I push to my feet and head for the door that leads to the other room. Sherlock waits on the other side of the door, possibly bringing more messes and more complications. I'm more or less prepared to face him as I push it open. What I'm not prepared for is seeing her again.

They're sitting on couches across from each other, staring into one another's eyes, drinking tea, and not speaking. Out of all the things I've been through with Sherlock, this still feels like one of the most bizarre scenes I've ever walked into. His mask is back on, full of indifference, but his grip on his cup is a little too tight. She looks calculating and unruffled. The corner of her mouth is pulled up into a coy smirk. Neither one of them acknowledges me.

Rather pointedly, I cross between them to the room service cart that Irene no doubt brought with her. They continue sipping their tea, calm as you please. And they just stare and stare at each other. Their weird little version of flirting. This irritates me. I chalk it up to lack of decent sleep. I grumpily shovel food into my mouth, chewing defiantly and making as much noise as possible.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson. " She turns her head ever so slightly in my direction without breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

"Oh," I say feigning surprise. I look around like I can't believe she's noticed me. "Good morning, Ms. Adler. Lovely day, isn't it? And how are you liking America? It's better than being dead, I expect."

She smiles pleasantly in the face of my sarcasm.

"Well, this place is absolutely replete with individual greed and political corruption. Secrets and lies are practically the national currency. And blackmail is the universal language."

"So naturally, you manifest!"

"You flatter me. Though, I do imagine that I've quite flourished here."

Sherlock gives a little snort of derisive laughter—the noise he usually makes when someone is wrong about something. Irene looks away from him for the first time to stare at me. I see the smallest flicker of fear in her eyes before she schools it away. _Well, that's interesting._

"What are you even doing here?"

"The official story was that I had gotten into a witness protection scheme here, so the groundwork for the lie had already been laid. Admittedly, I didn't want to leave London, but certain complications might have arisen if I'd stayed there."

Infuriatingly, she's stopped looking at me. Her gaze is back on Sherlock, and they're staring at one another like they're the most interesting things in the world. At the same time, they finish their tea and set their cups on the table. Perfect mirror images of each other. I glare at the carpet. Sherlock steeples his fingers below his chin, and Irene crosses her legs and leans toward him enticingly.

"So, what brings _you_ here?"

Her eyes are trained on him, busily drinking in his face. I roll my eyes. It's nice to know that I've been effectively cut out of the conversation. I go back to resentfully chomping on my breakfast. Sherlock inhales and drops his fingers away.

"You owe me a debt, and I've come to collect."

"I never asked you to save me."

"Well, if you'd prefer the alternative, I'm sure that can be arranged. There are several interested parties who would just love to know your whereabouts."

"And no doubt the elder Mr. Holmes is one of them. What would big brother say if he knew you were making deals with the devil?"

"You're not the devil."

_I'd like to disagree_.

Irene smiles, but there's an edge to it. She reaches for her cup. Discovering it empty, she sets it back down. Her fingers are shaking almost unnoticeably. It's a small slip, but it's very telling. She's not as calm as she's pretending to be. And she definitely doesn't like the turn this conversation has taken. Even I can see it which means that whatever's got her spooked is very bad news. Sherlock's gaze is riveted on her face. Rolling her eyes, she sighs and settles back on the couch.

"Doesn't anyone stay dead anymore?"

She pouts playfully, but I can practically taste how eager she is to steer the subject away from Moriarty.

"Apparently, only the least desirable people don't." I regret it the second I say it. Jerkily, Sherlock looks at me. His fingers flutter upward, hesitate at his chest, and then finally settle again into a steeple under his chin. His eyes flicker away. I had only meant to include two people in that statement, but I had forgotten about the third.

"Or maybe they're just the most tenacious," Irene interjects.

Her eyes are racing back and forth between me and Sherlock. She's no doubt picked up on the tension between us. He won't look at me. Before I can stop it, my hand reaches out in his direction. He looks at it out of the corner of his eye, and I close it into a fist.

"Tenacity is certainly one of Moriarty's more inconvenient traits," Sherlock finally responds.

"Yeah, that, and you know, his insanity," I shoot back. He gives a snort of laughter. His smile is lost behind his fingertips. Even though it shouldn't, his approval gives me a small strum of satisfaction.

Hostility is rolling off of her in waves.

"So what is this favor that you've come to ask of me?"

"It's not a favor. It's a debt owed. Dangerous people were after you, and I saved your life. Now, it's your turn."

"If you think I'm going to go up against Moriarty—"

"Of course I don't. That would hardly be a war between equals. No. What I'm looking for is ammunition."

"I don't know what you're expecting. I did a single deal with him. _He_ got in touch with _me_. We had limited contact with each other during that and none after."

Sherlock's leaning forward, eyes glinting.

"Oh, that's not true, is it? You're clever. He would have seen that. Would have liked that. Would have wanted to keep you around. And he's powerful. Got connections everywhere. You would have known that. Would have loved that. Would have wanted to stick around. And you never work with anyone without learning all of their secrets. It's how you make your way in the world. So tell me. What is the weak spot in his armor?"

"He doesn't have one."

"Everyone has one."

"Not him."

"You're lying."

Though it doesn't seem to be a farfetched declaration, (lying is, after all, her perpetual state) I still wonder why he sounds so confident. Her mouth turns down, and she moves to grab her teacup again. Halfway through the motion, she remembers that it's empty, and she clasps her hands together in an attempt at an awkward recovery. She gives an unhappy sigh.

"The best I can give you is a warning. But I know you won't listen, so even that won't do you much good. Don't go after him. It's what he wants. It's all a game to him, and there's no way he can lose."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you have something that he doesn't, and it's not to your advantage."

"I hardly see how his lacking something is a disadvantage for me."

"Believe me, this particular thing is especially debilitating."

"And what would that be?"

"A past."

Sherlock's face is rigid.

"Pasts are inconsequential. Things we leave behind."

"No. They stay with you, cruel captors that they are. They hold you hostage, leave their marks on you…and in you."

"How nostalgic," he sneers, but I don't quite believe his bravado. Suddenly, it doesn't feel like I can trust anything going on in this room. _What did Irene mean that Moriarty doesn't have a past, and what is she implying in saying that Sherlock does?_

Sherlock hefts himself to his feet and starts to walk away. "Sorry, John. It turns out that this was a colossal waste of time."

"If you're not worried about yourself, maybe you should worry about your friends. Moriarty likes to dig, and he will drag out everything they tried to bury." Irene stands too, her tone victorious despite it's grimness. Turning his back to her, Sherlock wrenches open the door to the bedroom and goes inside.

And I'm left alone with her. Lovely.

"What _have_ you done to him, Dr. Watson?"

"Me?" I raise my eyebrows in questioning disbelief.

"He's a little broken, isn't he? And I certainly didn't do it."

_So, she's noticed, too._ Instead of responding to her, I open the door to the hall, an unequivocal suggestion for her to leave. Simpering all the while, she brushes past me and heads out the door. With one final, knowing smile over her shoulder, she heads down the hallway and doesn't look back.

Back in the bedroom, I find Sherlock, sitting on his bed, his back to me. He's hunched over with his arm cradled against his chest. I go over to him to see what he's doing. My stomach turns over when I catch sight of the white expanse of his forearm. _It could be worse_, I tell myself. _It could be much worse_. Unsurprisingly, that thought doesn't make me feel much better.

Two rows of patches run up and down his left arm, meticulously applied, the exact same distance apart.

"Jesus, Sherlock." I count eight. He doesn't even argue with me as I start peeling them off. Surreptitiously, my eyes fly to the crook of his elbow. I don't see track marks, but he's clever, and he's been an addict for a long time. He knows how to hide these things. My gaze has lingered too long, and I can feel his piercing stare. Unthinkingly, I run my thumb over the small patch of skin. His arm goes rigid in my grasp, but he doesn't pull away.

With his eyes still following me, I stand up to go throw away the patches. I linger over the trashcan for a long time, my heart thudding in my chest. When I turn back around, I'm unsurprised to see his hands pressed up against his chest. He's not looking at me anymore.

"Go away."

It shouldn't hurt me, but it does. Balking, I take a half-formed step towards him. Again, I reach out to him. I always do that now. The desire to touch him, to make sure he's real, is nothing new. I used to be able to restrain it, but lately, the compulsion has proven too strong.

It would seem that a weakness in him triggers something similar in me.

"I said go away. I need to think."

"Alright. Fine."

Inching around him, I head for the door. Subconsciously, I recognize that I'm always looking for tripwires and landmines around him. _Why do we do this, Sherlock? It's like we're looking for ways to fall apart._

* * *

><p>One thing that I know for sure about myself is that I'm good in a crisis. I thrive under pressure, know how to channel an adrenaline rush and keep a cool head. I can look into the mouth of a loaded gun, and I can stitch a dying man back together. But for whatever reason, I can't fix this. I tip back another drink.<p>

Something is wrong with Sherlock. That much is glaringly obvious. And that's about the only thing that is. And the worst part? I can see this coming, can feel it looming: our ultimate disintegration. Our trajectory unfolds before me. It's not as though we are hurtling toward this at a breakneck rate. In some ways, it would be better if we were. Because then, I might be able to stop it. But this is harder because it's slower. We have more time to hurt one another; more ways to break each other apart. It's a sluggish sort of free fall that we're doing, and it's far more terrifying than if we just plummeted. Now, we just have too much time and too much space to think about things.

Tiredly, I push away from the hotel bar. I can't think about these things anymore, especially not while being imbued with copious amounts of alcohol. Besides, Sherlock always did better with abstract concepts like this, anyway. No doubt he's put a lot of thought into our mutual unravelling. I can just picture him in his mind palace, pulling at us until we come unspooled. The thought makes me giggle. It really shouldn't.

I stumble back to our room. When I push open the door, I can tell that something is off. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The room's too still. Too quiet. He's not here. As I go into the bedroom, creeping disbelief begins to take me over. There's no sign of his suitcase and no trace of him. It's much too easy to believe it, even if I don't want to.

_The bastard left me_.

* * *

><p>Mary's waiting for me outside the airport. I climb into our car and try to ignore the smile that's winning against her self-control.<p>

"Typical Sherlock," she murmurs with a chuckle as she starts driving us home.

Desperately, I want to laugh and agree, but I can't. Because while it's normal for him to forget about me every now and then, it's an entirely different matter for him to ditch me on another continent.

"Something's wrong with him."

Something in my tone sobers her.

"What happened?"

"I don't rightly know. I was there with him the whole time, and I couldn't tell you. But whatever's going on with him, it's not normal."

"Is anything ever normal with Sherlock, though?"

"You know what I mean. I'm worried about him. We have to watch out for him. You two can't keep secrets from me anymore."

She's watching the road calmly, but her mouth is taut.

"He told me about the drugs," I say quietly. "He didn't mean to, but he was a bit incapacitated at the time."

"Are you angry?"

"No. I just wish you would have told me. For one thing, you shouldn't have been dealing with that on your own, especially in your condition. Also, he hasn't been given the proper help. If you wouldn't tell me, why not tell Mycroft?"

"He asked me not to."

"And clearly, his judgment is always sound! Why would you agree to keep quiet for him?"

"Because I owed him that much!" She looks miserable and sounds worse. "After everything I put him through, lord knows that there is no end to what I owe that man."

"And the best way to repay him was to let him endanger the life you almost took?"

"I thought you said you weren't angry."

"I'm not. I'm just…fed up. And a bit at the end of my rope. I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to help people. And I'm his best friend. I'm supposed to know him better than anyone. But I don't know what the hell's wrong with him, and I don't know what to do."

"He's scared, John."

And, damn it, now so am I.

"Of what?"

"I don't know."

"Well, he's scaring me."

"I think that's what he's been trying to avoid. Even now, he's still trying to keep you out of the blast range."

Someone should probably tell him that it's a fool's errand. I've never seen two more combustible objects than me and him in my life.

And that's the trouble with Sherlock: everything with him is explosive, and he is forever hell-bent on making himself the wreckage.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter was horrifically difficult to write. This is version number six, and I'm still not pleased with it.<strong>

**Chapter title inspiration: Jack's Mannequin, "Release Me"**

**Thanks if anyone's sticking with me! xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

_"What might we deduce about his heart?"_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>7. We Pick Ourselves Undone<span>

The image on the screen haunts me day and night. It grows with my fears, every time bigger, more real. For a long time, I could convince myself that it existed only in that television screen. But Mary's stomach swells too large to ignore now. Three months. I have three more months to reconcile my life and hers. _Christ_.

I'd never given much thought to being a father. After the war and everything I'd been through with Sherlock, I'd just figured that that path would be closed to me. A lot of light had gone out of my life the day that he'd jumped off that roof. To say I was rudderless would be an understatement. I was directionless, the future seeming to dissolve before my eyes. Mary had put some of that back. My life was still dim around the edges, but a warm glow had been rekindled. There had been hope again.

Pressure on my hand draws me back to the present. Mary's eyes crinkle at the edges as she gives me a tentative smile that is equal parts happiness and concern. Somehow, I don't fully manage to return the expression. The sound of heartbeats is too loud in this room. Mine. Mary's. The baby's. With every collective thrum, the walls seem to crowd closer together. God, I can't breathe.

This was supposed to be the easy part. My life already came apart at the seams once. And Mary had stitched it back together. We weren't supposed to come unraveled like this. I can't do this. Not again. We have to fix this. For her sake—the baby's sake.

With a quaking grip, I squeeze her hand and turn stinging eyes back to the monitor. She barely looks real; she is nothing more than a greenish-blue glow on a tiny, black screen. It's a small window to a world that holds too much promise for me to trust it completely. But I'm willing to try.

The technician starts to put her equipment away, offering assurances and congratulations on having a healthy baby girl. Mary beams at me, and I feel something unfurl in my chest. Happiness. It's happiness.

We walk out of the hospital, side by side. Naturally, without even thinking about it, I drape an arm around her shoulders and bring her close. Tentatively, she lays her head against my chest. We both freeze at the same time in mutual hesitation. This easy touching shouldn't feel strange, but it does.

My phone vibrates at my side, and I pull it out. To my surprise, (and slight disappointment if I'm being honest) it's not from Sherlock, but from Lestrade.

**Got a case. Could use a hand.**

With a troubled frown, I type back a quick response.

**Wrong number, mate. I think you meant to text the other one.**

Almost instantly, he replies.

**Other one's already here and even more unbearable than usual. Could really use some help.**

"What is it?" Mary's watching me closely, not with suspicion, but with cautious curiosity.

"It's Greg. He's on a case. Sherlock's there, and apparently, Greg can't keep him in hand."

"How bad can he be?"

"I don't know, but if Greg can't handle him," I pause, a ghastly thought dawning on me. I look at Mary with growing horror. "You don't think he'd show up, high, do you?"

"No. Of course not." I don't think either one of us completely believes her. She blows out a puff of air that sends stray hairs along her forehead flying. When she speaks again, she sounds more confident. "He's not that far gone."

_Yet_. Neither of us says it, but we both hear it. She rubs my arm reassuringly.

"You should go."

"Mary," I sigh. "He doesn't want me there. Besides, the last case we worked together didn't turn out all that well."

"It's been two weeks. You can't avoid him forever just because he hurt your feelings."

"He didn't hurt my feelings!"

"And I'll just pretend that you didn't just stomp your foot." A sly smile curls across her face, and I feel my shoulders hunch.

"I did not."

She's exaggerating, but I can't deny that there's a certain hint of sullenness about my tone.

"Besides," I continue, "if he doesn't want me around, then I don't want to be around."

We reach the car, and I get her door for her, wrenching it open harder than I probably need to. I climb into the driver's seat and slam the door behind me. Mary mutters something about dealing with unreasonable children, and I give her a peevish glance.

"I'm not being unreasonable. He is."

"John. You need to go over there and make things right."

"I didn't do anything wrong! Why is this on me? Why does he get a free pass?"

"Because he's Sherlock." She gives a fond chuckle and cards her hand through my hair.

"That can be used to explain a lot of things, and not all of them good."

But already, I'm climbing out of the car and handing her the keys. Knowing smile in her eyes, Mary gets out and walks around to the other side. She presses a kiss to my cheek and gives it a pat.

"I'll see you when you get home."

Pulling out my phone, I search for a cab. Greg already texted me the address.

* * *

><p>When I get to the crime scene, I can feel the tension in the air as if it's a physical presence. Everyone is clustered together and standing back, like they're steering clear of a blast radius. I can see Sherlock, a lanky figure stalking around, black coat swirling. With one last look at the body sprawled on the ground in front of him, he strides purposefully over to Greg.<p>

I reach them just in time to hear him ask Sherlock if he's sure.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock snaps. Cagily, his eyes flick around to the small grouping of people watching him as if he's daring one of them to question him. Suddenly, he winces, his hands flying up to his head. Massaging his temples, he levels a scathing look in Greg's direction. His eyes flick over and give me a quick, dismissive scan.

Without preamble, he launches into a full explanation of the crime scene, the victim, and the perpetrator. In between his factual listing, he manages to wedge in insults that spare no one. Donovan opens her mouth to retort, but Greg elbows her, an action I deem wise. Sherlock is known to spew vitriol on his better days. Who knows what he's capable of in a mood as black as this.

I didn't think it was possible, but his behavior is even more erratic than it was the last time I saw him. He keeps stopping at random moments to clutch at some part of his body—his shoulder, his stomach, his head—as if he's in pain. At this particular moment, he's running his hand down the back of his neck, a cringe evident in his expression.

And he keeps jerking around at random moments to check over his shoulder. What he's looking for, I can't even begin to fathom. He looks paranoid and guarded, and there is a possessive stoop to his shoulders, as though he's trying to keep out even the stares of others. His words are short and clipped, and should someone so much as breathe loudly during his monologue, he affixes them with a cutting look: an admonishment for an interruption that hasn't even happened yet. Greg shoots me a look of commiseration. 'See what I've been dealing with,' it seems to say. I try to force a sympathetic smile, but my mouth doesn't want to cooperate.

His tirade at an end, Sherlock looks at Greg, chest heaving. He doesn't so much as glance at me again. With a smart snapping noise, Sherlock peels off his gloves and throws them to Greg before turning on his heel to leave, his coat billowing behind him.

"Hey!" I shout at his retreating back. "Slow down."

He falters for a moment before deciding to keep going. I jog up behind him and fall into step at his side. His hand is pressed steadily against his chest.

"What are you doing here?"

"Greg texted me."

"Clearly, it was a mistake. You are obviously superfluous."

I get the feeling that he means that in the larger sense, and I make a mangled noise that is torn between amusement and offense.

"Well, it's nice to be appreciated."

His frown deepens, and his fingers curl more tightly against the front of his shirt.

"No matter, John. I'll find another placeholder soon enough."

That stings more than it should. I'm rooted to the spot, smarting, but he keeps going without looking back. So, that's it then. I'm just a bookmark, an afterthought, a walking replacement for his bloody skull. I want to tell myself that he doesn't mean it, that he just does this when he feels backed into a corner or when he has too many emotions for him to know what to do with them all. But lately, I have become more and more unnecessary to him. He's started to put me on the shelf, forgetting about me and leaving me to collect dust.

It's a long way home, but I decide to walk at least part of the way, needing the fresh air and the exercise so that I can sort out my thoughts. Sherlock has always had a befuddling effect on me, but his presence resonates with _wrong_ now, and his absence does the same. He left a gaping hole when he'd left, and even though he'd come back, he doesn't quite seem to fit anymore.

I've been walking for a good twenty minutes when the black car pulls up beside me, the exhaust curling smugly behind it. _Great. Just what I need._ Mycroft rolls down the window, smiling pleasantly at me. Distrust festers in my stomach. If Sherlock is in the practice of keeping secrets these days, it stands to reason that Mycroft is privy to the worst of them. I wish people would stop protecting these things for him. I can't figure out why it bothers me so much, but grudgingly, I have to admit that it feels a lot like they're shielding him from _me_. Keeping him from _me_.

"Care for a chat?" He asks it as casually as if he's asking me if I fancy a stroll through the park. _Smug bastard_.

After some parsimonious consideration, I wrench open the door and climb in. As always, Mycroft is preoccupied with the various files that he's flipping through. With a slight huff of annoyance, I wonder if he'll even deign to acknowledge me. Somewhat bitterly, I note that more often than not, our little "chats" mainly consist of Mycroft categorically ignoring me while I twiddle my thumbs. Clearly, his superior and condescending manner are meant to intimidate. When I'd first met him, these manipulations, though transparent, were effective. At this point, however, we are well past all of the charades, and there's nothing he can do that will make me like or trust him. Or be intimidated by him. With a pinched smile, he looks over at me.

"So." The word has the smack of preeminence about it, like he's drawing himself up to make some grand inquisition or proclamation. Unimpressed, I raise my eyebrows. "I want to show you something."

"What?"

"You'll see."

Listlessly, I stare out the car window, watching grey, familiar streets pass me by. Recognition pricks at the back of neck. I know where he's taking me, but I don't want to believe it. This is far too cruel. Why would he put me through this? What is he trying to prove? Sensing my fury, he glances up at me.

"There's something here that I'm hoping you can help me understand."

I'm shaking with the indignity of it, but I can't deny that there's a forbidding kind of curiosity cropping up inside of me. _What could possibly be beyond Mycroft's understanding?_

We make the final turn, and another wave of outrage washes through me. _This has got to be some kind of sick joke_. I say as much to Mycroft, but his face only darkens as he puts his papers away. "It gets worse," he mutters ominously. We pull through the gates of the cemetery, and I try to fight down the tumult of emotions that unexpectedly hits me all at once. The path we're taking is hauntingly familiar. Subconsciously, I push up against the leather of the seat; my entire body is rebelling against being here. I can feel bile rising up and flooding through my mouth. Beads of sweat break out across the clammy expanse of my forehead. _He's not here_, I tell myself. _He was never there._

I didn't visit all that often—it was too hard—but I know where it is out of instinct. The car pulls to a halt, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

"I'll wait here, shall I?"

Asking him questions is useless, I know, but I still want to demand what exactly he's expecting me to do. Instead, I heft myself out of the car and take the familiar, punishing walk. Steeling my nerves, I remind myself that everything is different now.

_Maybe it's not even there anymore._

Fog swirls, and it hangs heavily around me. The thick air makes breathing near impossible.

My stomach bottoms out when I see him. I stop short. He looks like a ghost in the mist. It's hard to believe I'd just seen him not even an hour ago, vital and vigorous and very much alive. Now, with his waxy pale skin, he looks like a corpse.

Instead of walking over to him, I watch him from afar. A sharp pressure is coming to a point at the center of my forehead, and I find that I'm blinking rather hard. For the life of me, I can't figure out why this has me as thrown as it does. But too many of my nightmares have looked like this for me to breathe easily.

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, and even from the distance at which I'm standing, I can see the red tip glowing. White smoke unfurls from it and mixes with the haze pressing in around him. Steadily, he brings it to his lips and takes a long drag. And he's just staring at his grave. An eerie tingle runs up my back watching him. I want to go to him, but something stops me.

He holds the cigarette in front of his face as though considering it and then drops it. Beneath his feet, he grinds it into the grass that covers his grave.

I wait for him to turn around, to see me, but he doesn't. Hands shoved in his pockets, he keeps standing there in macabre fascination. He reaches a hand out, but he doesn't touch it. He just stands and stands and stands and stands. And stares. It makes my stomach turn over.

I watch him a few minutes more until I can't take any more of the morbid scene. I trail back the way I'd come. Suddenly, I feel very, very tired.

When I get back to the car, I glare into the tinted window for a long while before finally getting back in. Mycroft's face is carefully blank, but he's watching me too closely.

"So," I start. My 'so' has none of the importance his did. My voice wavers too much.

The car lurches back into movement, and Mycroft fixes me with his undivided attention, his fingers clasped at his stomach.

"My brother makes this little pilgrimage of his every day now."

"Why?"

"That is the question, isn't it? Is it a death wish? Some kind of narcissistic god complex that comes from defeating death? Sentiment?"

"No, that's not like him."

Eyebrows raised, Mycroft stares at me, worry plain on his face. "None of this is 'like him,' Dr. Watson."

Shifting uncomfortably, I debate with myself. Mycroft means well, but spilling Sherlock's secrets feels a lot like selling him out. I clear my throat. "He's Sherlock. He's brilliant and bizarre. This is what he does: strange things that no one understands."

"No."

It shouldn't, but that single world makes my blood boil. I hate the way it sounds. Like I'm a particularly slow child who's missing the point of a lesson. I bite back the urge to tell Mycroft that short of being inside of his head, I know Sherlock's thoughts better than anyone. Which mean I probably understand Sherlock better than he understands himself.

"Something else is going on. Tell me." His calm, razor-like gaze is upon me.

"He's…falling back into old habits."

His face doesn't move a tick, but its features somehow become even more forbidding.

"Why?"

"That is the question, isn't it?" I throw his words back at him mockingly. "Shouldn't you know? You spend more time with him now." The floodgates are open. "Surely you see how…unstable he's been lately. He's changed. He's—"

"Off kilter," Mycroft offers, looking grim.

"Yeah," I add lamely.

"And he can't afford to be. Moriarty's more elusive than ever. Sherlock will need to be sharp, be at his best, if he's going to go up against him."

"Hell, he hasn't even been _himself_ since he came back, let alone his best." My heart stutters in fear as I say the words. I've known it for a while, but saying it now, I feel the truth of it. It slides cold fingers down my spine. "I don't know what happened to him when he was gone, but it messed him up—bad. He held it together at first, but I could tell he was off. What happened with Magnussen, we were heading for that all along."

"Oh?" He's encouraging me, prompting me along. For some reason, this annoys me.

"He's breaking down." _A screw's loose. A gear's jammed_, I think morbidly. Quickly, I discard the thought, afraid to acknowledge what that means about his sanity.

"He's not a machine, John." I start at the familiar address and wonder for the umpteenth time if Mycroft can't read minds, after all. "He's not invulnerable."

"I know that," I snap. _But I didn't believe it_.

"He's a man. And men can bleed. You learned that the hard way."

My hands clench at the memory.

"Well, he's bleeding now," I say, continuing his metaphor.

"Why?"

_That is the question_. I don't respond.

"So what do we do," he muses, almost to himself.

_That's an even better question_.

The car whisks us along, but we're not going fast enough to escape this. Silence permeates the air between us. It's suffocating as it pushes against us, compresses the space around us. I assume that the conversation's over, so I resignedly turn to stare out the window again. Raindrops begin to spit against the glass.

"You know, sometimes I think I was wrong to let him do it."

I'm temporarily stunned into speechlessness. A Holmes admitting that he's wrong is a rare thing. Then, what he says catches up with me.

"What do you mean _let _him?You _helped _him do it. You planned it."

"I wasn't wrong about _that_."

"Then what?"

"I was wrong to let him leave you out."

I'm fairly certain my heart stops. Liquid heat drains through me. Seconds later, shivers creep over me. All along, I had convinced myself that it was Mycroft who had told Sherlock to leave me behind. It can't have been Sherlock's decision. _It can't._

"You were good for him John. Always have been. I tried to convince him to at least tell you the truth if he wouldn't take you with him, but he was adamant that you stay in the dark."

"Jesus," I mutter, running my hands over my face. What am I supposed to do with that knowledge? I don't want to know these things. I had already come to terms with Sherlock's 'death.' I don't want to open this up again. I can't.

He cut me out then, and he's cutting me out again now. The last time it happened, he'd ended up dead for two years. He'd barely escaped that time. Moriarty is a man who doesn't suffer failure. He wanted Sherlock dead two years ago, and this time, he's going to make sure it sticks.

"So what do we do?" Wearily, I echo his earlier words.

"Indeed." It's not an answer. But then, when it comes to Sherlock, there never really is one.

We pull up to my house. Without a word, I get out. Without glancing up at me, Mycroft starts scrolling through his phone. Soundlessly, the car glides away. Feeling hollow, I watch it disappear. I know I should go inside, but I can't make my feet move. I wonder if the blows will ever stop coming.

After a while, Mary joins me, takes my hand. She doesn't ask how it went. I assume my face tells her everything she needs to know. With a reassuring squeeze, she tugs me inside. I'm buoyed by her constancy. I feel as if the floor is falling away from me. Sherlock coming back was supposed to put everything back in its place. The only problem is that some days, it feels like he never really came back at all.

I let Mary sit me at the kitchen table. An unsteadying calm takes me over.

With firm fingers, I compose a text. I need to hear from him. Need to know he's not a body in a pit or a ghost by a grave.

**Are you okay?**

No response. Mary starts laying out dinner. I try again.

**Where are you?**

We eat, and I try to maintain unconcerned conversation. Mary doesn't need this stress. She doesn't ask. But we're both glancing at my phone with taut mouths and tight eyes. My fingers itch towards the buttons. I send another.

**Where are you?**

Then,

**Are you okay?**

The dishes are done, and we're sitting on the couch. I'm ramrod straight as some trivial show blares in the background. My phone is clutched in a death grip in my hand. Finally, a response comes.

**Irrelevant.**

It shouldn't hurt this much to breathe. Finally, I fire off a text to Mycroft, telling him to find his little brother. If I don't receive a response in the next twenty minutes, I'll have Mary take me to all of his hideouts until we find him.

The minutes tick by, too slow and too fast all at once.

"Mary," my voice sounds too pinched, too strained. I see the softened alarm in her eyes. My phone vibrates again. Mycroft.

**He's home.**

_No he's not_. Then the realization hits me. Baker Street. He's at Baker Street. That's home for Sherlock. A small voice floats at the back of my mind. _But I'm not there_. I squash it mercilessly. Mary's still watching me, waiting for me to continue speaking.

"Let's go to bed." I smile unconvincingly. Not questioning me, she follows me to our bedroom. We dress for bed and get under the covers in silence. Mary falls asleep quickly beside me. Tired as I am, I fight it. The memories wait for me. I know that the old recurring dream will be back in full force tonight. I don't want to have to face it. Not tonight. My phone lights up, and I bring it to my face.

**John.**

The text is odd and doesn't make sense. _Am I dreaming it? No. It's real. Why? Why did he send it?_ Nothing makes sense anymore. I close my eyes, but the words are seared into my brain. His text. My name. It's the last thing I remember before my eyes drift shut. I fall asleep to a resounding chorus of 'why.'

**…**

I pace the edge of the building, the familiar swooping sensation hollowing out my stomach. I have been here many, many times before. Hoisting myself onto the ledge, I let my toes hang off. I teeter on the edge.

"John."

The deep voice sends shockwaves through my body, and I whirl around to see the man who torments me day and night, even now. Seeing him here always jolts me, and this time is no different. I am surprised by the wave of longing that shoots through me. The urge to touch him, to make sure he is real, to make sure he is okay, seizes me. But he dances just out of reach, his visage shimmering and wavering as though he is just a trick of the light.

"Sherlock," I manage to choke out.

The glare of the sun is blinding at this point, and everything shines white. He doesn't smile at me, doesn't say anything. He only stares at me with that critical frown as though trying to deduce me. After a moment's pause, Sherlock joins me on the ledge. His pale eyes, now a soft blue to match the sky, watch me steadily.

"John, what are you doing up here?"

It's always the same question he asks, but I still don't have an answer for him. I shrug helplessly, and Sherlock's face darkens in anger and frustration.

"Give me a reason!" His shout echoes and tumbles across the empty rooftop until the wind carries it away. I flinch.

"Give me a reason!"

He seems to be saying a million things at once with the question, and I have a million things to say in return, but the dread of knowing what will follow this exchange is gnawing its way up my stomach and holding my words hostage. There is little I seem to be able to do other than stand agape in horror.

With a snort of annoyance, Sherlock turns away to survey the ground far below us.

"What are you doing, John?"

"I don't know," I reply miserably.

"Why are you here?"

"I don't know," I say, softer.

"What do you want?"

"I don't know." It's barely a whisper.

With a long, mournful look, Sherlock steps off the edge and disappears from sight. He slips away easily, as though it costs him nothing at all. He doesn't even seem to care that it costs me everything. A strangled groan escapes my throat as I lean over and watch Sherlock's tall form careening through the air.

_Just like flying_, I think dazedly.

And then, Sherlock is a crumpled heap on the ground, red pooling around him. Desperate, I leap wildly into the air after him. But even though I expect it—even though I long for it—no fall comes. It's as though there's some kind of transparent barrier holding me back, and try as I might, I can't break through.

Grief chokes me and swallows me up.

I claw uselessly at the air, scrambling in the unrelenting bubble.

_Why are you here? _His voice filters through my thoughts. _What do you want?_ It's a dull roar at the back of my head. _What do you want?_

"To follow you," I choke out. And finally, I fall. It's a relief as I plummet.

**…**

I wake up feeling more at peace than I should. I reach for my phone. I got one more text in the night, two hours after the first one.

**John.**

_Why?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Bastille, "Flaws"<strong>

**xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

_"You. It's always you, John Watson. You keep me right."_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>8. The Heft and Weight of a World Undone<span>

**…**

The cracks are getting deeper. Black scars gaping in the wood. Craters form where the floorboards have been ruptured. Tentatively, I edge around them, gripping John's chair for support. Phantom smoke is rising from the crevices and drifting lazily in the sunlight. Languid tendrils reach for me and envelope me in a loving caress. Hauntingly, it hovers around me, obscuring me in a hazy cloud. Its touch begins to burn. I try to shake it off, but the smoke won't dissipate. It grows thicker, blacker, tighter. I sputter and cough. I'm choking on it. Choking on the ghosts.

I close my eyes to seek a different kind of darkness. Shadows dance behind my eyelids and whisper in my ears. Violently, I shake my head, but they won't leave me alone. They leach into my pores, and I feel them enter my bloodstream, ooze into my brain. Vicious osmosis. They tuck themselves into the corners of my mind and lurk at the edges. They fester there and turn into something worse.

The demons are trying to claw their way out of me. I can feel them pounding against my skull, forming cracks with every blow they land. My head is splitting apart. White hot pain shoots through me. I'm erupting from the inside out. Crumpling to my knees, I bring my hands to either side of my head. Wretched tears pour out as I try to hold myself together.

"Cracking up, Sherlock?"

I open my eyes, and I'm back on the roof. Moriarty's there, leering at me. His head's split open, and there are chunks of his face missing. Hands in his pockets, he strolls towards me leisurely. Completely unconcerned, he watches me writhe in agony, my hands still plastered to my head.

He bends over to whisper in my ear. "Just let it happen, Sherlock. Then you can be like me."

I grip my head tighter. My skull makes a popping noise under the pressure. "Sherlock," he whispers. I clutch harder, trying to block out his voice. "Sherlock." My cranium is collapsing.

The cracks are getting deeper.

**…**

"Sherlock?"

I stir slightly, the voice prodding at some awareness at the back of my mind. The astonishment in it is overpowered by the dread.

"Sherlock! Can you hear me?" Wood crackles. Weight shifts. He's crouching over me. I can feel the shade of him, the protective hunch. Every nerve ending is alight with pain. My body is a bruise. I can't escape the ache. Though I am lying still, I feel as though I'm being perpetually slammed against the ground with every breath I take.

"Sherlock." Balmy hands are on my face. They feel nice. I curl toward the warmth, the wonderful, curative warmth. I am so cold. How did I not realize it before? I am so cold.

"Sherlock." _What's the matter, John? I'm right here. You're right here. What could possibly be wrong?_ "Can you hear me?" I murmur in assent. _Of course I can, John. I always hear you. Even when you think I'm not listening._

"Okay. Okay." I can't tell if he's reassuring me or if he's reassuring himself. The pressure on my face increases, thumbs pressing against my cheeks and dragging upwards under my eyes. His haggard breathing mixes with my limp exhales, creating a labored rhythm. A symphony of fear and pain. Somewhere far away, I hear pots and pans crashing together. His knees make a soft thud as they come to the ground on either side of my head.

Tentatively, his fingertips skate down, tracing the lines of my face. "Jesus Christ." He voice is as faint as his touch. I can feel him withdrawing. The warmth is gone. I grunt in discontent. _Come back._ Pooling my strength, I drag my arm across the ground. My palm finds the crease of his knee and folds over it. My body hums, like I've closed a circuit.

Gentle fingers push through my hair.

"Mary!" The cracks in his voice mirror the cracks in me. The crashing of the pots and pans stops.

"John?" The floor creaks with her footsteps. My body involuntarily seizes up at the noise. As I arch upwards, he catches me and guides me into a sitting position. I lean heavily against him, our shoulders making sharp contact.

"Oh my god, Sherlock!"

"Mary, I need you to help me get him inside."

"John, is he okay?"

"Can you help me?"

They seem to be having two separate conversations. They each are speaking calmly, mechanically, but there's an undercurrent of urgency there. The divarication disorients me, and the tension pulls at me, leaving me lopsided. I bow my head against the cacophony as they talk over one another.

"What's going on?"

"Don't strain yourself, though. I don't want to hurt the baby."

"How did he get here?"

"Mary, we have to help him."

There is, I discover, much more to hear in their pauses than in their actual speech. The silence is pulled taut with the strain of their worry. My hand is still at his knee. My fingers twitch, tracing small, invisible circles over the soft fabric there.

"Okay," Mary breathes. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'm going to see if I can get him to his feet. I can bear most of his weight. I just need your help to get him to the couch."

There is no reply, but she must have nodded because John is rocking off of his knees and back into a squatting position. My hand slips away. I feel myself being hauled into the air. I careen, unsupported for a minute, but before I can panic, his hands are there, one pulling my arm around his shoulder, and the other wrapping around my back. Seconds later, Mary's arm is around me, too. Between the two of them, I am propelled forward into the room.

My feet stumble uselessly beneath me as they try and fail to bear my weight. Finally, they give up and just bump over the floor as John and Mary pull me along. It's not a bad sensation, really. I feel like I'm floating. I can't remember the last time I felt this weightless. For weeks now, I've been sluggish, muddling through. My body felt bloated. Dragged down by heavy, cumbersome thoughts.

"God, it's like there's nothing to him."

That's a nice thought. _There is nothing to me_. The burden of _being _is gone. There is nothing to me. Nothing except for his words, coursing through me and filling me up. I smile and curve in the direction from which John's voice came.

Much too soon, I'm being lowered. With a frown, I twist upward and fight it. Already, I can feel gravity taking its toll, dragging it all back down on top of my chest. I want to lift my arms, reach for him, but they feel so heavy all of a sudden. Everything does.

As his hands leave me, the first stab of disorientation hits me. _Where am I? John?_

I must have spoken his name out loud without realizing it because he's here again, running smooth, dry hands over my slick face. "I'm right here," he murmurs, his breath fanning over my cheek. Instantly, my body goes slack with relief.

For some reason, this seems to worry him.

"Mary, I think I'm losing him. Get me some water, would you?"

"Should I call for an ambulance?"

"I don't know yet. I don't think so." He gives my cheek a light pat. "Sherlock, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes. _They are open. Aren't they?_ For the first time, I begin to notice the blackness that has been pressing in around me this whole time. I'm drowning in confusion, drifting alone in its murky waters. _John? Where am I? John?_

"Sherlock?" His voice centers me. I orient my focus towards him. "Open your eyes. Sherlock, please. For me."

That hits me right at the center of my chest. I must give a light jolt because he's running soothing hands down my arms. "It's alright. It's alright. I've got you. Just, please. Sherlock."

Slowly, my leaden lids flutter open. It takes far more effort than it should, but I'm rewarded with a view of John's face, breaking out into a relieved smile. It looks a little rusty, like he's forgotten how to do it properly.

"There you are," he whispers.

His thumbs are tracing mesmerizing circles beneath my eyes. I let the reassuring motion lull me into a light, easy stupor. My eyelids are heavy. _So heavy._ I forget why I was holding them open in the first place.

"No, no, no." He sounds so far away. My body's shaking now. He's doing it to me. Rocking me back and forth. "Sherlock." My brain feels like it's being shaken loose. "Keep them open." It's rattling around my skull now. "Stay with me."

_Of course, John. I will always stay with you. Even when you leave me behind._

Mary comes back in in a swell of worry. Her perfume carries the scent of bitter memories. They taste acrid on my tongue. My stomach turns over. The rim of a glass is being pressed against my lower lip.

"Sherlock. I need you to drink."

_No. I don't want to. _I feel sick. _But John needs me to._ I can't hold my head up. It's too heavy. His hand is there, at my jaw, easing it open. Obligingly, I let the tension fall out of my mouth.

"Good," he hums. It takes massive effort, but with John's help, I drink. And he is a genius, really. I don't give him nearly enough credit. Already, I feel the relief as the water pours, like a salve, down my throat. I blink a few times, turning the bleary smudge of flesh into a clear picture of his face.

I trust more and more of my weight in his hands. I feel myself slipping off the couch as my body falls towards his. With a mighty heft, he pushes me back upright, but my hands have found their way to the front of his shirt, and they pull him with me.

The springs of the couch groan as I settle back against it. Moments later, the cushion sinks with his weight beside me. I drop easily toward him, my head finding his shoulder. He allows me languorous minutes there, basking in his warmth, absorbing his strength. _Help me, John_.

Carefully, he starts to shift our positions. He eases me around so that I'm facing him. I curl my knees into my chest between us. My head starts to dip. _Tired. I am so tired._ But his hands are there, on either side of my face, holding me in place.

"Sherlock. When was the last time you ate—or slept, for that matter?"

"I..I dunno," I slur. I can't remember. _It hurts to remember_.

"Sherlock, this is very important. I need you to remember. Now, when was the last time you had something to eat?"

"A day or two, maybe? It wasn't a lot. It hasn't been a lot. Not for a couple of weeks now." My words stutter, fall over themselves. I'm running on fumes. He's keeping his face blank, emotionless. If only I could dam my thoughts—if only I could _think_ clearly—I could see what he was hiding.

"And sleep?"

Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head. "I haven't been—I haven't been sleeping."

"Okay." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "Okay." His hands press tighter against my face for a second before loosening again. His eyes dig into mine. He's got me pinned there in his gaze. I don't like this. I don't like this at all. "Have you been losing time at all? Do you have blank spots in your memories, times when you can't remember where you've been?"

I swing my head back and forth. I would probably have kept going on and on in the motion, but his grip stops me. There's a flicker of distrust in his eyes, and it sends a surge of pain through my heart. I go to press against it, but I find that my hand is already there. With a shock, I realize that my other hand is at his waist, bunching the fabric at the hem of his shirt.

_When did that happen? Why is my body doing things without my permission?_

"Sherlock, do you know where you are?"

I blink a few times and look around me. Once I'd realized I was with him, it hadn't really mattered where I was. It had never even occurred to me to wonder what existed beyond the planes of his face.

"Your home," I mumble after a bit too long of a pause.

"Yes. And do you know how you got here?"

_No. _Blackness stretches behind me. A void in my memory. _I don't know anything anymore._ He takes my silence as an answer and frowns deeply.

"It seems like you're missing a thing or two, after all."

Bitter fear floods my mouth.

"What's happening to me?"

"Your body's shutting down. It's forcing you into sleep. But you keep fighting it. You have to stop this, Sherlock. You're doing some serious harm."

My mind churns through that slowly. "So," I hesitate. "I _sleepwalked _here?"

Taken aback, he blinks hurriedly.

"I hadn't thought of that, but it's the only thing that makes sense. Though, sleepwalking to that extent…it's unusual. It's lucky you ended up here."

_Oh, John. Luck had nothing to do with it. There is nowhere else I could have possibly ended up. It would seem that I always find you. Even in sleep._

Mary comes back in with a plate in her hand. I hadn't even realized she'd left. Everything feels like it's slipping outside of my control. I can't seem to keep a firm hold on anything. _But it's alright. Because John's got a hold on me._ As if to confirm this, his fingers curl against my skin. _Don't let go, John. Don't let me go._

My hand falls away from my chest. My other one disentangles itself from the front of his shirt. I don't know quite what to do with them now. Another wave of exhaustion hits me, and I start to crumple. John's grip shifts down so that he's holding me by my shoulders.

"I know you're tired, but I need you to eat first. Okay?"

_No. Not okay. Nothing's okay._ But I nod. _John needs me to do this._

With some difficulty, I choke down everything he gives me. Nausea roils in my stomach, but I keep it down. My body is a leaden mass, dragging me under. John is easing me backwards, and I feel the swoop of panic.

"Now you can sleep."

My fingers spasm out, reaching for him.

"No. I can't—I see—I see—"

"What's the matter?"

Anxiety weaves through the folds of his face. My breathing is ragged, raked along the raw expanse of my throat.

"I can't trust what I see. I don't—I don't know what to believe."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

I nod. _Exactly. I'm not making any sense. Nothing is making any sense. All that makes sense is you. Help me, John. Help me._

The question is still there, in his eyes, pleading, insistent. With a hard swallow, I lick my lips, my eyes darting around, finding a spot on the ground and not moving from it.

"I think I'm going crazy," I whisper.

Tremors seize my body. Now that I've made the admission, I can't take it back. I tense, waiting for the madness to come ripping out of me. But there's only the steady tick of silence. Haltingly, I drag my gaze back up to meet John's. There's a hard sheen of defiance in his eyes. Disbelievingly, he shakes his head.

"You're not crazy, Sherlock. You're only crazy if the things you believe in turn out to not exist."

I try to regulate my breathing, slow myself down, find calm. "You—believed—in—me." I don't know where that connection came from or if it even makes sense, but it is suddenly extremely dire that I say this, that he confirms this.

"Yes. And I'm not crazy, am I?"

"Not in the least."

He laughs; a response I wish I caused more often. It's a bit too tense around the edges, but it's a welcome, warm sound that fills my chest.

"I think that's one of the best compliments you've ever given me. Right up there with my dimness illuminating your brilliance or whatever it was that you said."

"Well, perhaps that won't be true for very much longer. It just might be that my brilliance is a finite resource."

"No. Sherlock, listen to me. We've established that I'm not crazy, right?"

With a roll of my eyes, I nod.

"Right. So, we can go ahead and assume that I know what I'm talking about, then."

His eyes narrow as he reads the doubt on my face.

"Do you trust me?"

Languidly, I blink, drawing out the motion. Sleep calls to me, but my mind rebels against it, flings itself away from it. John is a bleary outline.

"Do you trust me," he persists.

"Only you."

Something momentous settles between us, and the air seems to ripple with it. I almost have my finger on what _it_ is when John's hand finds its way to my cheek again and chases away all other thoughts.

"Okay, good." There's a smile in his voice. "So, trust me, you're not crazy."

I nod, a deeper heaviness settling into my bones. He stands up, and I stretch my legs out. A small shiver runs the length of my body, but already, John is draping a blanket over me.

"You're brilliant as you've ever been. Just sleep, and we'll get you sorted." His voice drones on above me, taking on a slower rhythm. "You're fine, Sherlock. You're doing just fine. You've just got to keep it together. Please. For me."

His words, usually so grounding, untether a latent fear within me. _John, I'm going to let you down. John. I'm sorry. I'm coming apart._

Sanity is a delicate thread in my mind, and it's unravelling. I'm coming apart.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: City and Colour, "Harder Than Stone"<strong>

**Thanks if anyone's still reading! xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

_"I'm the best thing that could have happened to you. Sorry."_

Mary POV

* * *

><p><span>9. Not Much Here Outweighs the Pain<span>

"John."

He doesn't acknowledge me. He doesn't move. Clenching and unclenching the hand at his side, he frowns at Sherlock in desperate concentration, as though he can will him into wellness. My feet whisper over the floor until I'm at his shoulder. My hand snakes down between us, and my fingers dance over his, tempting open the tight fist he's made. Soundlessly, we watch the uneasy rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he sleeps. He hovers right at the edge of consciousness, though. We can both see it, the way he fights it, too terrified to rest completely.

Slowly, I ease him away, pull him into the kitchen. We both need to look away from this, if only for a minute. Not even an hour has gone by, but already, as we stand in the early morning light, it feels as though a full day has passed. His hand is going slack in mine, and I feel him pulling away. The urge to tense up, to seize his hand and not let him go, grips me, but I fight it down. He drifts away from me, his bare feet shuffling across the floor.

"John?"

Eyes slightly glazed, he stands at the kitchen sink, staring out the window above it. Dazedly, he turns to look at me. He runs a hand over his cheek and brings it to stroke his chin. Clearly at a loss, he shakes his head and heaves a miserable sigh. Even though Sherlock is asleep on the couch in the next room, his presence seems to hang heavily in the space between us.

John's eyes search over my face, but I don't have any answers to give. We blink blankly at one another. There's a leak at the faucet. It drips apathetically in the background. The hum of the refrigerator grows louder, turning into an angry buzz. Just as the silence becomes oppressive, John shrugs, making it a somehow reassuring and helpless gesture all at the same time.

"I don't know what to say."

_Clearly_. And for some reason, I laugh. Everything is awful, and the pain and confusion are acute around us, but I laugh. And John is laughing now, too. Neither one of us thinks it's particularly funny, but we're afraid to stop. Then, just as suddenly as it erupted out of us, it dwindles to an abrupt halt.

"I don't know what to say," John repeats. There's a bleakness in his tone that wasn't there before, and it casts a sobering pall over the room.

"Okay. That's okay. We'll just make a list of everything we do and don't know." My voice is calm and soothing. I can do this. We've been here before: John on the brink, and me reeling him back in. That's how this works. It's an ebb and flow. Sherlock pushes him to the edge, and I pull him back. That's how this works. It's symbiotic.

Mechanically, John nods and waits for me to start. I am unused to seeing him this unsure, this indecisive. His eyes flicker to the doorway, following to where his thoughts have strayed. His hand's clenching up again. This agitation isn't normally like him. John's a doctor. He's used to helping people under duress, in much worse states than the one Sherlock's in, but he can't seem to get a grip on himself. When it comes to Sherlock, he can't treat him like he would any other patient. Too many things get in the way. _Sherlock is the exception. Sherlock is always his exception_.

"Alright, so let's start simply," I say, pulling his attention back to me. "We know that he showed up here, at our door."

"Yes, but we don't know why," he adds dully. Coming to himself a little more, he starts pacing agitatedly back and forth. "Everything he does, he does with a purpose. But this…he unconsciously crossed a great deal of distance to come _here_. It doesn't make sense. That took a special kind of drive to get him all the way over here. All while he wasn't even aware he was doing it."

"It was something more powerful than conscious thought that brought him here," I say faintly, waiting for John to realize what I have known for months. But it doesn't come. His eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement, he drops his gaze to the ground, as though the kitchen tiles hold all the answers.

"Greg called me the other day," he declares out of nowhere. "He said he's worried about him, too. Says he gets distracted all the time. Loses concentration. And it's not just his normal habit of ignoring people, either. He checks out.

"And Greg thinks Sherlock's starting to miss things. They've been investigating this string of isolated cases because Sherlock insists that they're connected. But no one sees it. And Sherlock sees things people miss all the time, but Greg says there's nothing there."

I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, John slams a fist into the counter—hard.

"Damn it. _Damn_ it. He can't do this. He can't lose touch. Not now. Not when I've finally…not when he's finally come back."

_Not after I almost took him away again_.

"Nothing's wrong with him. Nothing's wrong with him. He's just exhausted. Overrun. I told him that this would happen. The body can only take so much."

_The mind can only take so much_.

I don't say a word in the face of all of this, but he's arguing with the air all the same. Frantically, he looks to me for affirmation, but I can't give him pity, and I can't give him comfort. Not now. He needs to work through this right now if any of us are going to come out of this all right.

"John, talk me through this. What's going on with him?"

With a deep, steadying breath, he drags out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, studying the lines of his palms. While he pulls his thoughts together, I pour him a cup of coffee and sit down across from him.

"I think he's developed some sort of stress-induced parasomnia disorder. That would explain the sleep-walking and the odd behavior. But I don't know," he sighs, running his hands over his face. "I'm not a psychologist. But I've been through a war, and I've seen what it can do to people. I _lived through_ what it can do to people. Sherlock's been fighting a war of his own for a long time now. He's a finely tuned instrument, and he's more sensitive than he lets on."

_His brain absorbs everything. It's bound to have soaked up some rather toxic things. And maybe, his knees are finally starting to buckle under the pressure._

"John!"

The sound ricochets through the room, followed by a distant thud. Almost as though he was waiting for it, John is out of his chair like a shot and flies into the living room. I come in on his heels in time to see John helping a disoriented Sherlock back onto the couch. Tenderly, John cradles Sherlock's face in his hands, whispering something I can't hear. Tension visibly leaves his body as he lets John lay him back down. John crouches next to his head, and his hands don't leave his face right away. There's intimacy in the touch. Sherlock's head finds its way onto John's shoulder, and I can't tell if John pulled it there or if it dropped there of its own accord.

When sleep finally drags Sherlock back under, John rises stiffly to come back over to me.

"I'm not going in to work today. I need to stay with him."

I nod at him, mentally adding emphasis to the word _need_.

We try to continue the day as normally as possible, but I still feel as though there's a massive crater in the middle of our living room, and I inch around it with averted eyes and a creeping sense of anxiety. I don't know why, but I am worried. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that John and Sherlock seem inexorably drawn to one another, no matter how much they try to keep themselves at an arm's length.

John and I don't talk. We just mutely move around one another, pretending like there's nothing the matter. He types on his computer. I run errands. And Sherlock sleeps.

Around noon, Sherlock shoots bolt upright and stumbles through the flat, his eyes wide and unseeing. John's name is on his lips, and it seems all he's able to say. There's something ghastly in his appearance: a haunted look in his gaunt face, pain in his bloodshot eyes. His hands are clasped to the side of his head, just like they were when we found him outside our door this morning. John is at his side in seconds, rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks, murmuring reassuringly, guiding him back to the couch.

I think about suggesting the guest room, but something tells me that having Sherlock in a bed will feel far too intimate for John. Already, he's being strangely gentle with him and touching him far more than he would under normal circumstances. It's subtle, but I can feel something shifting in the dynamic among us.

After that episode, John brings his laptop over next to Sherlock and sits on the floor at his head. Neither one seems too keen on being apart. And I feel strangely unnecessary, achingly obsolete, watching them.

Every couple of hours, John will rouse Sherlock, making him drink or eat something, and then he will let him drop back to sleep. There are no more major interruptions now that Sherlock knows John is in the room with him, sitting right next to him. Every now and then, he'll start out of sleep, look around, see John, and then close his eyes again, looking at peace.

John and I still don't talk. Silence settles over us, thick as dust. All there is now is just a light, fluttering of breath mixed with heavier sighs. And my own stuttering heartbeat.

We adopt a new pattern. Sherlock breaks a little more with every breath he takes, and John tries to hold him together, straining himself further with every minute that passes. I just keep waiting for the moment when John can't take it anymore. When he'll need me again, so I can feed on his pain. I need it to make me feel necessary, feel relevant to his life. We adopt a new pattern. It's parasitic.

Late afternoon stretches into evening, and evening drags into night. John and I get ready for bed silently. A slow-breaking sadness ripples over me. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him finish up his nightly routine. As he comes out of the bathroom, I rise to pull back the sheets.

Much to my shock, John suddenly collapses against me, his head buried against my chest. After a beat, I embrace him, try to reassure him. My throat closes over, and all I can do is rock us back and forth.

_I'm scared, too,_ I want to tell him. _I'm always scared now_.

His hand drags down my arm. His fingers tangle with mine, and he drags me back out of our room and over to Sherlock. He coaxes a strong sleeping pill into Sherlock—hopefully enough to keep him out through the night—and after a quick stroke of fingers through his hair, John captures my hand again and leads me back to our room.

He falls asleep quickly, but I lose hours to fretful thoughts and a disquiet that I can't quite pin down.

* * *

><p>The coffee cup slams against the nightstand harder than I'd intended. It clatters loudly as it comes to a solid rest on the firm surface. I didn't mean for it to, but my hands are shaking too hard to control the movement. The sound barely breaks through his coma-like sleep. If anything, he only snores louder. I watch as he shifts slightly before settling again—a warm, dependable lump of blankets and sheets.<p>

Fondness for him breaks through some of the anxiety that has been building since yesterday morning's unexpected visitor. Lightly, I press the tips of my fingers against his forehead and try to smooth away the wrinkles there. He's so deep in sleep that he doesn't respond to the soft contact of my hand against his skin. This benign, unaware acceptance of my touch is the easiest contact we've had with each other in months.

Tentatively, I settle on the bed and run my fingers through his downy hair. His early stirrings from sleep should be my warning to leave, but letting my hands linger is a luxury I allow myself. Every night he spends next to me is a gift. Of course, he was essentially unconscious last night, falling into an overwrought pile of exhaustion and worry, but I'll take it. I had grown used to having his warm form beside me, and I had never really learned how to be without it. Lonely. I am so lonely now; even when he's right beside me.

Pale lashes flutter, and then he is looking at me. I hate how afraid I am. I shouldn't feel the need to ask permission to touch my husband, but I feel as though I'm trespassing all the same. My mouth twitches up into a tentative smile, and he returns it with a sad sort of shadow of one. My hand slips away from his face just as his comes to rest on my stomach. He's no longer looking at me. He only has eyes for the large swell of my belly. The thread that holds us together. When he looks up at me again, there are still vestiges of affection in his eyes, and it doesn't dim from them immediately.

And, there, just like that, I have hope again.

"I made you breakfast." My voice is wobbly, and my feet are unsteady as I stand up. His hand falls back onto the mattress, a dead weight. I make a choking sound as I clear my throat. "Coffee's on the nightstand."

With an appreciative groan, he sits up and takes the cup. I linger by the bed as he drains it in a few gulps. Wordlessly, I take the now empty cup from him and start to move away, my fingers dragging lovingly across his arm. My feet hardly make any noise as I head into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he follows me out of the bedroom, almost as soundless as I was. I wonder if that's what we're going to do now: tiptoe around one another.

It takes me a minute, but I realize that he isn't behind me anymore. I glance into the living room and see him there. He hangs above the couch, his hands clasped behind his head. He pushes his weight back and forth, from the heels to the balls of his feet. The oscillation of his movements mirrors the struggle in his mind.

In the entire time I've known him, Sherlock has never made anything easy for John.

If I'm horribly, wrenchingly honest with myself, I don't want him to start. Every time Sherlock hurts him, I hope that it will be enough to outweigh what I did. Because I'm just waiting for the moment that Sherlock does something so horrible that John walks away from him forever.

He sees me and lifts the corner of his mouth into a half-smile.

"I'm not actually that hungry. I think I'll just…" he gestures vaguely in the direction of the bedroom.

"Head to work early? Yeah, that's…I'll see you…"

I wonder if that's the other thing we'll do now: trail off in the middle of sentences, leave things unsaid.

Back in the kitchen, I spoon uneaten eggs into the garbage. Suddenly, I'm not so hungry either. I clutch my stomach and stare out the window, listening to the muffled sounds of John getting ready for work. I hear the familiar creak of the living room floor, but I don't hear the door open. I keep waiting for it, but I still don't hear him leave. I cross the room, looking curiously around the corner.

I linger in the doorway of the living room, unseen by either one of them. I was right; John hasn't left for work yet. He's drawn, like a magnet, to the couch, to the pull of the sleeping form there. He's holding Sherlock's hand in the air, his fingers trained on his wrist. John has been holding it long enough to reassure himself of a pulse, but he doesn't seem able to let go. Only when Sherlock huffs does he remember himself, tucking his hand carefully back into his side. I think he's going to leave now, but John stays there, staring. Finally, he brings a hand to curl around Sherlock's cheek and slides it down the curve of his chin. A few moments more, and he traces the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes.

"John?" I venture slightly into the room, and John snaps up somewhat guiltily.

"Sorry."

_For what?_

"I'm headed out. I'll see you when I get home."

He's staring at Sherlock again.

"I love you."

"Hm?" He's still not looking at me.

"John?" He drags his gaze to meet mine. "I love you."

Nodding, he absently turns to look at Sherlock again. "Yeah…love you." Shaking his head, he looks me earnestly in the eyes. "I love you, too. See you later."

Almost as an afterthought, he crosses the room and gives me a light kiss. With a lingering look at Sherlock, he leaves.

* * *

><p>I get about an hour to myself before Sherlock finally wakes up, groggy and disoriented. After monumental effort, he manages to lug his body off of the couch and into the kitchen. Blearily, he slides into a chair and runs his hands over his face. Wordlessly, I slide a glass of water in front of him and hand him some pills. Wincing against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, he swallows them down and then stares at the grain of the wooden table.<p>

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugs. With a deep, steadying breath, he splays his hands on top of the table, studying the way his pale fingers curl against the deep mahogany.

"Are you asking in general or in relation to how I was feeling yesterday?"

"Both. Whatever you like."

"Well, which is it?" Peevishly, he lets his fingernails bite into the wood.

"All right," I reply in placating tones. "How are you feeling, generally?"

His posture as rigid as the stiff chair he occupies, he raises his head to study me. His gaze rakes over everything in my expression, but he won't meet my eyes.

"Do you know what they say in Spanish?" I shake my head, the conversation having taken an unexpected turn. It's a strange thing to ask, like he's jumping around from one unrelated subject to the next. "_Tengo dolor_:'I have pain.' I _have _it. Like it's something I carry around with me, tucked under my arm, nestled in my ribs. I have it."

I'm not especially sure what to say to that, so I wait him out.

"But that's all right. Prolonged exposure to anything will eventually render you invulnerable to it."

"Or it will kill you."

He smiles then, a scary blank expression ripping across his face.

"It seems I've developed an immunity to murderers, too, though."

"Sherlock…" He blinks benevolently in my direction, all calmness and acceptance. I'm at once grateful for the lack of blame and long for it. "Everyone needs a support system," I say, changing the subject. "That's us, Sherlock. We're you're safety net."

"Safety net?"

"Yes, people who love you. John loves you. And so do I. Let us help you."

He snorts into his hands.

"_People who love me? _I don't need any help."

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"You act like people don't matter to you, only to throw away everything for said people."

"The beneficiaries of such acts would do well not to question them," he replies archly, dual meaning heavily implied. He's staring at a point somewhere above my head. My breath chokes off. His gaze shifts back and forth in the air above me.

"I looked, you know." His fingers drum evenly over the table, the timing between each movement calculated so that they are precisely the same. "John didn't look, but I did. You had to have known that would happen. You know me so well." He says it matter-of-factly, without judgment or blame. "But don't worry; I didn't tell him. I won't tell him."

My heart hammers so loudly, I swear he must be able to hear it. John burned it, but part of me knew that I would never truly be safe.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, especially because you don't."

"Do you hate me?"

"I could easily ask you the same thing. It wasn't mine to know, but I took it, and I read it all."

"I don't hate you, Sherlock. I understand why you did it."

He peers at me owlishly, looking me directly in the eyes for the first time in months.

"You do, don't you? You understand."

This sentence seems to have more meaning for him than me because he turns it over in his mouth a few times, letting the significance resonate.

"Doubt is a terrible thing," he says quietly, almost to himself. With a grimace, he drops his eyes to the table. Ashamed. He is ashamed. The expression is all too familiar to me. I wear it every day. _You were very slow, Sherlock_.

"You beat me, Mary," he says, as though he's reading my thoughts. "You beat me soundly." With a wry smile, he brings a hand to massage his forehead. "Doubt...Trust…who can you trust? Who do you trust, Mary?"

I don't answer him. This feels dangerous all of a sudden.

"Do you trust me?"

I nod.

"Well, that makes one of us."

"Sherlock—" I am horrified, but I don't know how to express the full depth of it. "I am so sorry."

"I've already told you that there are no apologies needed."

_Why, even alone, do we let stand the fiction that I didn't shoot to kill? _

"You know that's not true. You've see the file. You know what I'm capable of."

"But do I really?"

And still, he doesn't hurl accusations. I want him to. I need him to punish me for it. To give me a chance to explain, so that he can absolve me. _Understand, _I want to say. _Understand that desperate_ _people react in one of two ways. They either let the panic consume them, or they claw their way out, fight with everything they have. _ I lived an ugly life before John, and I wasn't going to let anyone take him away from me. Not even Sherlock.

_Some loves weigh heavier than others._

Sherlock isn't watching me anymore. Instead, he's lining the tips of his fingers up and meshing them together. There's a distant, hollow look in his eyes.

"Doubt is a terrible thing."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Go Radio, "What If You Don't"<strong>

**Again, I'm super grateful for the feedback and support, especially if you're still reading! xxx**


	10. Chapter 10

_"I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself."_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>10. My Thoughts, They Let Me Down<span>

"You shouldn't use the nice stationary for _them_. They got you and John an undesirable gift."

"Sherlock, there is no 'nice' stationary. All of the cards I bought are equal amounts of lovely. I have excellent taste."

I give an amused grunt with only the corner of my mouth turning up. She gives me a playful nudge, and I have to repress the involuntary reaction to flinch away. Pretending not to notice, she turns her attention back to her task.

"Besides," she says lightly, "it's the thought that counts."

"Well in that case, you shouldn't be thanking them at all."

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighs, but I see her trade out the embossed cardstock paper for a thin card of a flimsier nature. I lace my fingers together and watch her hand form sloping lines that come together into neat, precise words. At this point, I can recite the message she's writing from memory. It's a formula she follows, only changing out names and the occasional word.

Everything she does is like this: measured, exacting, and calculated.

She glances up and me, and for a second, something disquiet passes over her face. Quickly, it brightens, recovering into a teasing smile.

"Hey! No neglecting your duties!" She slides an envelope towards me and rattles off the address without consulting a list or directory.

Obediently, I begin copying down what she said. The pen shakes in my grasp, and I drop it to the table. With a rueful wince, I grip my hand tightly and then release it, flexing my fingers in the air. Ignoring the concerned look Mary gives me, I seize the pen back into my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her open her mouth, but she doesn't ask. After a moment, she closes it again. We study our hands, ignoring all of the things that are obviously wrong. _We're just pretending. That's good. Let's just pretend, Mary. We're good at that._

Unsteadily, I try again to write out the address. The words start to dance in front of my eyes, the lines wiggling, teasing me. The envelope begins to blur around the edges, a fuzzy, white halo surrounding it on the dark wood. Squinting at it, I try to bring everything back into focus. But my brain doesn't want to work with me. It explodes the letters across the paper, scattering them into no discernable order.

My gaze is sliding out of my control. Thoughts come tangentially. They barely graze my consciousness, teasing me with things I cannot grasp entirely. I'm surrounded in an esoteric haze, a frustratingly opaque miasma of confusion and befuddlement.

"Sherlock?"

The hand clenched around my forearm snaps me back to the present. After blinking several times, Mary becomes recognizable again, her features finally distinguishable. She's stroking my arm in a continuous, pleading motion.

"Where did you go?"

I shake my head. _I don't know anymore. I never feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be._

"You left me for a good five minutes. Don't do that anymore."

_I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to stay._

"Hey. You're back now, right?"

_No. I'm always lost now. Always lost inside my head._

My phone bleats, causing me to start. In a single, fluid motion, I slide it off the table and bring it up to my ear. Mary's still frowning at me over the top of the table, and the sides of my eyes crinkle in annoyance.

"John," I say without preamble.

"Sherlock. Hey. I, um, meant to text you, but I guess my finger slipped, and I must have accidentally called you instead."

"Hm."

We both pause to ignore the flaws in that story. I'm tempted to point them out to him, but I decide it would be uncharitable and let it slide.

"Well since you've got me, you can just tell me."

"What?"

"Your text, John. What were you going to text?"

I afford him another long pause so that he can recover.

"Oh. Right. I just was, er, wondering if Mary was with you."

"She is. And her phone is here, too."

"Right. Good. Well...what're you two doing?"

"Writing thank you notes. I can't believe how long it's taken you to get around to them. It's a little rude, frankly."

"Well, etiquette dictates that we have a year to do that. Besides, we've been a little busy since the wedding."

"Hm."

_Some of us have been more busy than others._

An awkward cough bursts over the line.

"Okay. Good," he says irrelevantly. "How—how are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Okay." He sounds uncertain. "Good."

_Is it? _I want to snap at him, a desire I barely hold in check. _Stop it. Stop it, John. There's nothing wrong with me. You said so yourself. What's the matter? Don't you believe me?_

"Okay," he repeats quietly. There's nothing left to say, so I hang up. I feel oddly disconnected as I stare at the blank screen. It's quivering before me, but I don't know if it's my hands or my eyes playing tricks on me. Don't know if it's my body or my mind failing me.

I slam it on the table, a sound Mary chooses to ignore. There's a pressure on my chest, and I realize that my other hand is pressed flat against it. It, too, makes a slamming noise as it falls away.

Her cards written, Mary begins addressing the envelopes herself, handing them to me so I can seal them and put the stamps on. Once the finished products have been assembled into a haphazard pile, she straightens them out, saying nothing about the stamps that ended up in the middle of the envelope or halfway off the edge. Wordlessly, she tucks them away. She'll fix them later.

For now, we'll just pretend.

"I think, I'll be going now," I say, starting to push away from the table.

"Have some water first," Mary challenges, pushing a glass toward me.

With a harrumph, I plop back down and seize the cup, draining it quickly. Mary is watching me far too intently. Just as my suspicions begin to gain traction, black starts closing in at the edges of my vision. I stagger to the couch, Mary following in my wake. Mournfully, she watches as I fade back to sleep, too defeated to feel betrayed.

**…**

The cracks are climbing. They claw their way up the walls, raking through the plaster, splitting around the window frame. I find myself studying an opening that spans most of the length of the wall. It runs deeper, wider, than the others. It's a black scar, a gaping wound, before me. From that crack grow tiny little splinters that feed each other and spread infinitely. A maze of interlocking lines. A convoluted network of ruptures and breaks. A spider's web.

"Sherlock."

The walls shudder with the exhale of his whisper. I turn to him, bones rattling, joints creaking. There's a pitying, contemplative twerk to his mouth, cushioned with his usual tinges of irony and twisted amusement. Hands snaking into his pockets, he advances toward me, each step deliberate, his arches rolling over the ruined wood of the floor.

"Let's play a game," he hisses, head tilting to the side.

"Let's play…_murder_." His voice drops into a low, dangerous taunt. Our sleeves brush as he circles around me. I stiffen under his scrutiny. His stare feels intrusive, penetrating, and unwelcome.

"Let's say you were going to murder somebody." A cruel smile stretches across his face, lip curling in enjoyment. "How would you do it," he whispers in my ear. "Who would you choose?"

I close my eyes against the questions. He's spinning his trap, tangling us together.

"What do you think, Mary?"

My eyes flutter open, and she's here in the room with us, white fabric cascading around her. I can't see her face through the gauzy drape of the veil. She stands, still as a statue, a white, inscrutable pillar. She doesn't answer him, either.

"Now, if it were me," he intones thoughtfully, "I would be very…particular." He lurks behind me and walks his fingertips over my shoulder. "Usually, I don't like to get my hands dirty. So, if I were to make an exception, it would have to be someone _special_." His hand slides down the front of my shirt, restricting my movement, holding me hostage.

"I would want it to mean something. He would have to be brilliant, dangerous, reckless. Just like me." My eyes flick over to Mary. Nothing about her has moved, save for the slight stirring of the veil at her fingertips. His fingers tighten over the front of my jacket, the tips of them biting into the stiff fabric.

"I would tempt him close, win his trust. He would never suspect; he would never know. Not until the knife was…Already. In. His. Back."

I almost lose myself to the stab of piercing, blinding pain right through the center of my spine. The agony of it feels like it's cleaving me in two. Fractures spiral through my ribs, chasing their way up my bones.

The cracks are climbing.

**…**

A huge, gasping breath brings me back into the present. Much too quickly, I sit up, and spots of light pop in front of my eyes. My heart is fluttering so fast, I feel as though my head is going to lift off from my body. Something heavy falls into my lap. With mounting horror, I realize that it's my arm. I can't feel it. _Why can't I feel it? John?_

Thoughts come too slowly. Mindless terror seizes me. It's dead. My arm is dead. _Oh, god, it's starting. My body's dying. I'm dying, John. I'm dying._ The arm that is still functioning flies to my head, kneading at my forehead, trying to prod thoughts back into motion with increased blood circulation. _Oh. Of course. Blood circulation. _My arm's not dead. It's asleep. I must have been lying on top of it.

Gingerly, I start to massage it. It hangs limply in the grasp of my other hand. A phantom limb. A whisper of something that used to be there. A sensation only accessible through memory. But it's coming back. A not unpleasant buzzing sensation tingles up and down my arm.

As my heart returns to a normal rhythm, I sense his presence. With forced calm, I turn to face him. I know he saw everything. _Help me, John._

There're dark circles under his eyes. His back is stiff. He's been sitting with me for a long time. I want to leave. I can't stay here anymore. Not under his worried, pitying gaze. _Don't say anything, John. Let's just pretend. Nothing's real anymore, anyway._

"John."

He's already at my side, hand extended, but not making contact.

"I want to leave."

"Not yet, Sherlock. Not yet."

"I want to leave."

"No."

_No. You're right, John. I want to stay._

"No. I want to leave."

"Sherlock,"

"Please, John. Please. I want to stay."

"Okay. Good."

_No._

"No. I want to leave."

_I can't think. I can't think._ The drugs are still in my system, pulling me back under.

"I want to stay, John, but I can't."

"Yes, of course you can."

"Just let me go, John."

"I can't."

**…**

My mangled body is lying on the bed. Blood dribbles pathetically out from my mouth. John is holding my hand, smoothing back my hair. The fluorescent lights drown everything in a harsh, indifferent glare. There is no comfort here. Just his hand, tightly clasped in mine.

His heart thrums loudly, defiantly seeming to grow stronger as mine fades away. A slow, sustained, tinny beep is all I have to show for my life. God, it's an awful sound. _Beep_—make it stop. _Beep_—no don't stop. _Beep_—if it stops, I'm dead. _Beep_—I have to stay. _Beep_—I can't leave. _Beep_—I can't leave him alone. But I can._ I'm not the one he needs._ The machine is buzzing. _Is that normal? _Seething white noise. Angry, humming in my ears. He is so close to me, but I can't feel his heat. The longer I look, the further and further away he seems.

The beeping seems to start to run together. _No, it actually is_. A solid, steady bleat. _No._ A final shriek. Is this the sound of death? It's supposed be peaceful. It's not supposed to be like this. It won't end. Why won't it end? It's over, but it doesn't stop. I can't leave. Not like this. High-pitched wailing. It goes on and on, vibrating through my bones, spiraling down my gullet.

_Stop blinking, John. Stop blinking and fix this._

_Don't let go, John. Don't let me go._

**…**

* * *

><p><strong>This one's short, and I'm sorry for that, but Sherlock's thoughts are getting to a choppier, more abbreviated state, and that's just sort of how this chapter unfolded.<strong>

**Chapter title inspiration: Greg Laswell, "And Then You"**

**xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

_"I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes..."_

Sherlock POV

**[Warning: Extreme Anxiety; Panic Attack]**

* * *

><p><span>11. My Eyes See Things They Shouldn't See<span>

When I finally wake again, I don't open my eyes immediately. Instead, I study the backs of my eyelids. The translucent flaps of skin are the only thin barriers holding back the outside world. Their tiny expanse is blown infinite in my limited range of vision. Light filters through, an orange glow, a sunset blend of hazy colors. My veins fork their way down: insidious, purple branches behind closed eyes. They divide the ochre hues into fractured panes, a confused and ugly stained glass window. A pink and red cloisonné of flesh and blood.

Shades of the drug's effects still hang about me, and they brush me with tempting, soporific wisps. For a time, I let them wash over me as I hover in the liminality between sleep and wakefulness. It's a tepid water that surrounds me. My mind floats easily over the gentle, rocking waves, but I'm careful not to fall back into the riptide of dreams. A gradually growing terror is lurking in the depths, but I keep it blanketed, smothered, for now.

Sharp stabs begin to break through the insulation of my suppression and denial. All of the pain feels like it's in the wrong places. Tiny pinpricks rush over my skin. A needlepoint of dysesthesia.

Mary's soft whisper floats through the air.

"Should we call someone? Mycroft, maybe?"

"No," John replies faster than I can think it. "He might take him—" he chokes off for a minute. My mind starts to clear, and I try to focus on why the swallowed words seem important. All of my pain surges to the center of my chest and merges together into a throbbing mass. John coughs. "I mean, he won't know what to do."

"Do _we_ know what to do at this point?"

"No, but we should probably stop drugging him." There's a wry twist to his words, but it doesn't entirely mask the concern. "I checked his vitals," he continues. "He's running a low-grade fever, his resting heartbeat's a bit faster than normal, and his blood pressure's much higher than it should be."

"What could cause that? Stress?"

"Yeah." I don't have to open my eyes to know he's running a frustrated hand over his face. He sighs. "It's like he's having some kind of sustained nervous breakdown."

"He's kept so much locked up in that head of his for so long, and it's all starting to collapse inside of him."

"That's exactly it. It's all in his head. It's got to be. He built it all up. He's decided that he's going mad, so that's what he's set out to do. It's like he's trying to prove himself right about his own insanity. He can just _never _be wrong." There's grisly amusement in his voice and the smallest pinch of annoyance.

_"You risk your sanity to prove you're clever." _Moriarty's voice rips through my consciousness.

At the sound of his plangent tones, my eyes fly open. Frantically, my eyes race through the room, looking for him. My nerves uncoil when I realize that he isn't here. He's only in my head. Just like all the other monsters.

John's sitting in a nearby chair, his hands clasped in front of him and his head dropped between his shoulders. Mary hovers at his side, her fingers curling under her chin as she stares down at him. Neither of them notices that I'm awake. Quickly, I twitch my eyes shut. John's speaking again, and all the nerves in my body feel like they're straining towards him.

"The thing is, that was his refuge, and now, it's the thing he's trying to escape. He's always relied on his mind, but he can't do that now. I'm worried. He lives in there, Mary. He lives in his head."

_And we know what happens when something becomes inhabitable, don't we? We abandon it; we leave it. We go out of it._

"He's brilliant Mary. He's _brilliant_. There's nothing wrong with him. He's fine." She's not fighting him, but he's arguing, just the same. "But sometimes…rational as he is, that brilliant mind of his just doesn't see sense."

_Well, John, it would seem that this brilliant mind of mine has turned itself inside out. And now, it's collapsing in on itself, dragging everything along with it. A black hole. That's what my mind's become. It sucks me in. Devours me. No escape. Ingenuity consumed by insanity. The Holmes legacy._

_"Oh, don't wallow, Sherlock. It's so boring."_

I recoil away from his words, and I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to edge him out. I don't want him here; don't want _his _voice in my head. My body rocks with a spasm, and I realize that I'm shaking.

I know John sees me. I hear his footsteps carrying him over to me, hurried, but not frantic. I open my eyes to study him. There's anxiety in his face, but not alarm. He's seen this before. I've done this before. _So it's not just my mind that's been spinning out of control as I sleep._

He freezes when he realizes I'm awake. His arm hangs between us, frozen in motion. His fingers curl in slowly, hesitantly, one by one. Then, with an abrupt movement, he snatches his hand back to his chest. Mary drifts up behind him, watching us both warily.

Sluggishly, I push into a sitting position and take in the permanent creases in my clothes. I'm feeling distinctly crumpled, and it's a largely unsavory sensation. They're watching me too intently, and my shoulders hunch protectively. The three of us exchange uncomfortable looks. Paradoxically, all of the space in the room feels suffocating.

"John." We trade blinks. "John," I repeat. His name's become a bit of a talisman for me. _Say it enough times, and I might find control._ "Hand me my phone."

A sigh that sounds suspiciously like one of relief escapes his lips. Familiar habits. Familiar patterns. They're a comfort for him, but they're also a danger. They too easily reveal anomalies.

Without comment, he grabs my phone from a nearby table and hands it over to me. As soon as it's in my grasp, he's almost too quick to step away. A bit too eager. I suddenly become aware of a pocket of space around me. An atmosphere he's unwilling to breach. _That's right, John. Stay away, John. I might suck you in. Into the gravitational pull of my madness._

_"Because everything revolves around you."_

He's taunting me. He won't go away. _Why won't he go away? John?_

I stab at the phone screen in frustration, trying to ignore all the people around me—real and imagined. Hands on his hips, John drops his head to study the carpet.

"I went to Baker Street and got some fresh clothes for you," he says, addressing his shoes. "They're in the bathroom. You can wash up…shower…if you want. You might feel better if you do."

"Implying that there's room for improvement."

"No. At this point, I'm flat out saying it."

"Your capacity for deduction is absolutely staggering," I say stiffly, throwing my phone aside and standing up. The world seems to tilt on its axis. The floor see-saws up, and I feel as though I'm sliding away. I take meandering, unsteady steps forward, shouldering past him.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going.

"One to ten, Sherlock," John says sharply. His voice is dangerous, combative. I look over my shoulder at him. His face is swimming before my eyes, and I try to will it to stay still. There's a weighty, almost challenging look on his face.

"What?"

"On a scale of one to ten, where would you place yourself?" I open my mouth. "No. No. Shut up. Don't answer right away. Consider all the facts." His voice drops into an imitation of mine. Eyes narrowed, he crosses his arms and puckers his lips stubbornly. "Where do you rank?"

We stare hard into one another's eyes. After lengthy consideration, I give an annoyed sniff.

"I think, I'll take that shower now."

With that, I lurch towards the bathroom. Mary reaches out and gives my arm a light brush as I pass. I'd forgotten she was here.

"Sherlock."

Something about the way he says it—all hard edges and suspect intent—makes me bristle. I don't turn around to look at him. But as sure as my hand's pressed to the front of my chest, I know his is reaching out into the space between us. I force myself to keep walking.

* * *

><p>The spray of the shower is scalding. I reach for the hot water knob only to find it already turned all the way off. But still, the water burns. It doesn't make sense. None of my pain is coming through properly. But I know that I hurt.<p>

I try to breathe in, but it feels like knives are being shoved through my lungs. Pressure is climbing up my throat. There's a heavy weight on me, crushing my windpipe. With every inhale, my capacity to breathe seems to compress. Panic wraps crushing fingers around me.

I can't catch my breath; I can't pull in enough air. It's a horrifying, suffocating feeling. My limbs feel heavy and far away. Everything's distant and inaccessible. And I'm floating—floating away. I stumble out of shower and fall hard into the sink. My hysterics implode inside of me, and I can't breathe. _I can't breathe_. The framework of my bones compress inward, flattening me out, collapsing me down.

My knuckles whiten as I grip the edges of the sink. My vision is tunneling. I'm trying so hard to stay, but there's nothing to anchor me here. Tight as my grasp is, I can't feel the cold porcelain in front of me. I can't feel anything. Just a terrifying numbness and an abysmal emptiness.

I wrench my eyes upward. In my rapidly dimming vision, I see that the mirror in front of me is shattered. No. _No. _I stare in horror at my broken reflection. Shards of it have fallen out; parts of me are missing. The pieces of my face are misaligned, warped by the cracks. I squeeze my eyes shut.

_"Cracking up Sherlock?" _Moriarty whispers in my ear.

_It's not real. He's not real. Nothing is real._ I can't breathe.

Somehow, I end up on the floor. A cement weight is crushing down on me. I'm breaking apart. A fractured body to match a fractured psyche. I can't breathe. Consciousness is ripped away from me, and I descend into a scary, blank void. A slipstream of panic and loss.

I can't breathe.

I can't…

The first thing I register when I come back to myself is the hiss of the shower in the background. Soreness filters through my bones as I take in the hard, cold tile beneath me. My heart throbs, beating contusions against my chest. I take a breath, and it comes in so sharply, so suddenly, that it feels as though I've punctured a lung.

I struggle into a standing position and move to turn off the shower. I avoid looking in the mirror. Ignoring the shake in my hands, I grab a towel and dry off. My bones feel brittle and hollow, like all of the marrow has been sucked out of them. _Is there anything left to me anymore?_ Unexpectedly, I laugh. _Not to worry. Just another fascinating development in my black hole complex. _I rub the towel harder against my skin. I'm rubbing myself raw.

After I've shoved myself into my clothes, I dare a look in the mirror. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until it comes gushing out of me in relief. It's still in one piece. It's still whole. The relief is short-lived once I realize that I'm celebrating the fact that I'm seeing things.

_Delete._

_I'm fine_. I push open the bathroom door and step into the hallway. _Everything's fine_. John's standing there, waiting for me. _Completely fine_. The vein is bulging in his forehead again, and he rather looks like he wants to punch me. _Apparently not fine._

"What the hell, Sherlock?" he hisses. "Did you text Lestrade and tell him that you were being drugged and held hostage here?"

"Of course I did. How else would you describe this situation?"

"Helping you!" he bellows, his face assuming a rather unflattering shade of puce.

"The course of your logic fascinates me."

"Sherlock—" There's a warning in his tone.

"—Oh for god's sake, John. I doubt he's going to arrest you."

"No. Lucky for you, he called first instead of just storming the door with half of Scotland Yard in tow. It would seem he's learned his lesson about jumping into action for you."

"So, he's not coming, then?"

"No. He's coming over. Said he has some stuff he needs to discuss with us."

"Oh good. So he's finally seen reason about this case we've been working on. He's been so obstinately slow on this one. Refuses to see the connections. Nice to have him coming around, though it's a bit annoying how long it took him."

"I don't think that's what's going on," John says faintly, but I don't listen to him.

"When will he be here?"

"Any minute, I imagine," he responds wearily.

We continue to linger in the hall. John's staring at me in the most peculiar fashion. I wish he'd just tell me whatever painstaking thing it is that he's struggling with. Honestly, it's exhausting to watch. There's tightness in his eyes, and his fingers trace his lips, considering. His arm is suspended between us again, reaching for me, but never grabbing hold.

A knock at the door breaks through the tense silence, and it feels as though the sound passes through me. Shaking his head, John pivots away from me to answer it. I wander back into the living room and sit on a chair next the couch Mary's occupying. She gives me a sad smile that I acknowledge out of the corner of my eye.

Minutes later, John and Lestrade walk in.

John offers him a seat, but he refuses, choosing instead to pace the room with his jacket pushed back and his hands on his hips. Silently, John watches him as he settles on the couch next to Mary.

"Lovely home you've got here," he says loudly, awkwardly.

Mary accepts the compliment and repeats the offer for him to have a seat and make himself comfortable. Again, he refuses. His gaze lands on me for the first time. Discomfort passes over his face, and he rubs the back of his neck nervously. I line up the tips of my fingers and stare over them, meeting his stare evenly.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can even get a word out, John blurts out the first thing that seems to come to mind.

"So, how are things?"

"Hm?" Lestrade whips around. "Oh. Um. Good. Yeah, good. Of course, Anderson is making trouble again. Been poking around the investigation about Sherlock's shooting. Won't leave it alone. He's only making things worse for himself. They'll never let him back on the force at this rate. Claims he doesn't care. Says the system's corrupt. He's been working on conspiracy theories. Insists it was all a cover-up."

He clamps his mouth shut, like he's said too much. He shoots an uncertain look in Mary's direction. I perk up at that. _Interesting._ Slow as he is, Lestrade has never been too terribly inept. I wonder how much of the truth he's managed to figure out.

"The case is closed and sealed. Your brother took care of it," he continues, nodding at me. "Which is probably why Anderson thinks the system is corrupt." He winces again, like he's said something wrong. I wait for the inevitable turnaround. "Of course, you know, the system's in place to protect people," he says, backtracking. "Sometimes people make mistakes, and we need to protect them…" He trails off and darts another look at Mary.

I turn to stare at her, too. _But it wasn't a mistake, was it Mary? You knew you were going to have to kill me all along, didn't you? From the moment you met me, you knew._

_"You should have just stayed dead, Sherlock," _Moriarty lilts. Out of the side of my vision, I can almost see his shadow, lurking in the corner. _"It's tricky business, rejoining the living. Just makes people want to send you back. They realize how much they don't need you. As long as you were dead, she was safe. You weren't a concern. You weren't a threat. You were a non-entity. But you were very much alive. And you could **see**."_

I glance at Mary. Yes. I could see who she was from the start. _But sometimes what you see is not always what is._

_"Oh, Sherlock. But it **was** there. It was right in front of you. You just refused to see. You covered her tracks, and you let John believe the lie."_

_Maybe John wasn't the only one who needed to believe it. _

_"Love is such a vicious motivator," _he jeers. _"It talks you into things when you really should know better."_

_Shut up. _"Shut up!"

They all twist to look at me. I blanch. The words were wrested from my lips before I even realized what was happening. I need them to stop looking at me like that. _Stop it. Stop it, John. I'm fine. Don't you trust me?_

I shoot to my feet and start pacing around the room. No one says anything.

"There's been another murder," I say, pointing in the direction of my phone. "I saw the report."

"Yeah," Greg responds, looking confused. "We've already assessed the crime scene. It was just a random mugging."

"None of this is _random_. They're all connected: the suicide, the overdose, the car crash, the double homicide, and now, the mugging. They're all connected. Don't you see the pattern?"

"No. What is it?"

"I don't know. But it's there. Something's not right about it. Can't you see it? Something's off."

John and Lestrade exchange pointed looks. _Stop it. Stop it, John. _Discomfited, Lestrade turns back to face me, scratching his head.

"Sherlock, John and I have been talking, and we think it's best if you take a break. Just until this whole Moriarty business is sorted. We think you're just taking on too much right now, and—"

"—Scale of one to ten," I say urgently, not looking at Lestrade.

"Wha—?"

"John. On a scale of one to ten, where do I rank? Where would you put me?"

He shakes his head sadly at me, but he won't answer.

_Oh. Oh. John, you don't believe me. You don't believe in me. But I'm brilliant, John. I'm supposed to be brilliant._

I back towards the door. I have to leave.

_"Looks like you're all alone, Sherlock. But don't worry, you still have me." _Moriarty's whisper takes root deep inside my mind. He's taking me over. _"Admit it, Sherlock. You have missed this. Just you and me…_

_"You need me. We complete each other. Two halves of the same crazy whole."_

I'm halfway out the door now. And John lets me go.

* * *

><p>I'm back at Baker Street, but I don't remember how I got here. My phone's ringing. It's been ringing for hours. Maybe even for days.<p>

I don't answer.

Everything's slipping away. Disappearing right out from under me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Go Radio, "That California Song"<strong>

**xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

_"Just stop it. Stop this..."_

John POV

**[Warning: Mental Breakdown]**

* * *

><p><span>12. Tell Me How to Reach You<span>

"You should have told me sooner."

I grip the phone a little more tightly.

"I'm aware of that, Mycroft, but Sherlock is usually less cooperative when you're involved. And I thought we could handle it on our own."

"I do wonder why he sets such stock in your opinions. From what I can tell, you're sorely lacking in sensible reasoning."

I squeeze my lips together and roll my tongue along the top of my mouth. I know getting angry with him won't be helpful, but I can't completely smother my resentment. I want to ask him where he's been this whole time. _You saw the signs, too, Mycroft. Probably better than I did. Where the hell were you when your brother was falling apart?_

"I assume you called for some reason other than to scold me?"

"Yes. I know where he is."

I pull the phone away from my face and heave a huge sigh. This past week has been near impossible. It's been eight days without a word from him. Eight days without proper sleep. He was nowhere. We looked in all of his hiding spots, all of his bolt holes. No sign of him. I was starting to half-expect to find a body. I bring the phone back up to my ear.

"Where is he?"

"The cemetery."

"I'm headed there now."

"John."

I pause.

"He needs you, John. Help him."

* * *

><p>I find him at his grave. It still turns me cold to look at it. The air around him seems to quiver with his agitated energy. Feet rooted to the ground, he's as immovable as the horrible, black headstone in front of him.<p>

He's chain-smoking and standing stock still. In silence, I watch him light a cigarette, suck it dry, throw it out, light another. The whole of his movements are spastic, jerky, jittery; like they're running on a creaking, mechanical circuit.

God, I wish he'd stop.

"Why do people come visit these places?" he says, making me jump. He sounds angry, annoyed, even. Somewhat wildly, he gestures toward his grave. "It's a pile of dirt and a slab of granite. What's here for them? Why would they come here?"

"I used to come here to talk to you." I try to keep the edge out of my voice. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm mad at him. I'm furious, actually. Because I've never been scared around Sherlock the way I am now. And I've never doubted him before, either. And I'm so angry with him for doing this to me now.

"I wasn't here, though. Even if I was, I wouldn't have been."

He sounds so hollow, so distant. But he's staring straight ahead of him, like something important hinges on me understanding this. And I feel ashamed for being so angry. Because he sounds so lost, so broken.

I sigh. "Sherlock, this was all I had left of you. I know it's irrational. It's sentiment."

"But I was gone, John. Dead is dead."

_I know, Sherlock. I had to bury you. _There's a gleam in his eye that I don't quite trust. He lights another cigarette and takes a long drag like it's his lifeblood.

"Strange thing, death," he continues, his voice is quiet, strained. "Something that used to be there isn't anymore. It's a complete loss of faculties. It's a lot like insanity in that regard."

The cigarette dangles, forgotten, in his fingers. The ashes burn dangerously close.

Shaking his head, he stares into my eyes intently.

"But I didn't give in to it. No. He didn't win. No." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "No," he repeats, looking manic. "I didn't succumb to it. I won't fall victim to death. I won't give in to madness."

His eyes slide out of focus. It's like he's not talking to me anymore. He stumbles away from me.

"Look, John." He points a smoldering cigarette at the black marble. "Look at the cracks." The stone is unblemished. I see nothing. But Sherlock is staring at it with frenzied eyes. His pale, shaking fingers run insistently over the white engraving of his name as though he's trying to smooth it over. He doesn't even notice that the ashes are dropping onto his exposed skin. Roiling unease grips me. I want to reach out to him, but I don't want to spook him.

"It's splitting apart," he mumbles as though coming to some realization, making some connection. "Sherlock Holmes is breaking apart." He laughs, a terrible, hysterical sound, punctuated by sniffs and huffs.

He blinks several times. "He'd like that, wouldn't he," Sherlock hisses, all traces of laughter gone.

"Who?"

He shakes his head, his wide, bright eyes glinting. Viciously, he puts out the cigarette, grinding it against the top of the tombstone.

"Look at the cracks, John." He lifts a half-hearted finger. He sounds so young, so desperate.

"Sherlock. There's nothing there. Look. There's nothing there."

Obediently he squints at the stone, bending over to study it. "Amazing," he murmurs, pressing his hand flat against it. His thumb rubs back and forth over it, almost reverently. He looks back up at me, eyes sparking with frustration and something else that I can't quite place. "They're gone. All gone. But I could have sworn…I saw them. I saw them."

He scrubs his face in vexation. His fingernails leave red claw marks down his face.

"I see so many things, John. So many things. I can't trust what I see."

I reach out to him, but he flinches away.

"Do you know how the human eye works, John? It sees everything upside-down. It's the _brain_ that flips it around. Isn't that extraordinary, John? Everything we _see_, our brains reinterpret. Our minds twist everything around. So how do we know what we're looking at? Which one is the truth? What's real?

"What's real?" he demands. I shake my head. I don't have the answer.

"John." The force of the word doubles him over. His white-knuckled grip is on the edge of his headstone. I rush to help him, but he shakes me off.

"I'm fine," he roars, snatching away from me. "There's nothing wrong with me." His breathing's too fast. His gaze is too unfocused. My hand hovers uselessly behind his back, not quite touching him. He slams down to the ground, his knees making hard contact with the soft grass beneath him. His hands are pressed to his head.

"Oh, god." Rocking back and forth, he squeezes his eyes shut. I don't know when it happened, but I'm in the dirt now, too, crouching beside him and tugging his hands away.

"John." It's a painful sound. A cry for help. A plea for mercy.

With a sharp intake of breath, he falls forward on all fours. His breathing sounds painful and uneven. His hand flies to his stomach with a jerk.

"It hurts," he wheezes.

"What? What does?" If he just tells me what's wrong, I can fix it. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" My voice is surprisingly steady, but I can still detect a note of desperation. "What hurts?" I plead.

"Everything."

I pull him to his feet, and he leans heavily on me. His hand flies to my wrist, his fingers track my pulse. His other hand is pressed to his chest, and it's like he's keeping time with our corresponding heartbeats. I'm still terrified, but it seems to calm him. I bring my free hand to his face and stroke his cheek, guiding his face so that he makes eye contact with me.

"You're okay. You're okay. Oh, God, please. You're okay."

"I know, John," he gasps. "I'm with you."

His grip on my arm is tight enough to leave bruises. I can feel the tremors running through his body. He is heavy in my arms. Ragged breathing is struggling its way up his throat.

Without warning, he lurches away from me, clutching his heart. I keep my arms firm around him.

"John, I think—" he heaves a pained breath. "—I'm having—" he makes a dry, retching sound. "—a heart attack." He veers away from me as I call for an ambulance.

He's insensible now, gulping and gasping. There is no coherence in his speech, no clarity in his eyes. My name comes up every now and then, and that's the only time he has any semblance of himself. "John," he moans, whirling around. He lurches back towards me.

His grip is a vice on my arm. His eyes are horrible and bloodshot and locked onto mine.

"I'm dying, John. I'm dying."

My hands are clumsy as they smear the tears away from his face. Over and over again, I shush him.

"No, you're not, Sherlock. It's not a heart attack. It just feels like one. You just need to breathe. Breathe through the panic. You can stop this. You can control it. Breathe. Do this with me." I pull his hand up to my throat, trusting him not to choke me in his terror. His fingers extend for a moment, considering, then fall limply against my neck. His other hand is glued to the front of my jacket. I'm supporting the full weight of his body.

"Breathe, Sherlock. In and out. In and out. Breathe with me. In and out. Breathe."

For a moment, I have him. Together, we pull breath in, push it out. His eyes never leave mine. He won't even blink.

"John."

And then, he's gone. I lose him to violent shaking and fractured sobs. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him through it. His hand slips down to my chest and presses against it. His other hand is still against his. His fingers curl tightly against the front of my shirt, and I try to hold on for the both of us.

* * *

><p><strong>Real talk for a second: if you are suffering with anxiety, depression, or any other form of mental illness, please get help. I can say from experience that it's an absolutely horrible thing to go through alone. I tried to deal with my panic attacks by myself, and it culminated in a rather awful nervous breakdown. So please know that you don't have to be alone!<strong>

**I think it's important to say that this point in the story marks the beginning of the healing process. I've had enough of poor Sherlock's suffering.**

**Chapter title inspiration: The National, "Sea of Love"**

**xxx**


	13. Chapter 13

_"If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that I think I am—would you still want to help me?"_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>13. The Walls Are All Shattered; I'm Back at the Start<span>

There's a wailing in the distance and a throbbing in my head. Liquid thoughts slip past me, trickle through my fingers. Everything is melting down around me, flowing through my grasp. I can't hold on. I can't hold on to anything. Except for John. I bunch the fabric of his shirt tighter in my hand. The thrum of his heart is pounding solidly beneath my touch. I want to reach through his ribs and pull it out, hold it in my hands, clutch it to my chest.

"…too fast," he's saying.

_Yes, John. Too fast. Everything is spinning much too fast._

"Sherlock, if you can hear me, I need you to slow down your breathing. Sherlock? Please. You were doing so well before."

Spots are erupting in front of my vision. _I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry._

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. You're okay."

I hadn't realized I was speaking. Every nerve in my body is rebelling against me. There's a crackling in my mind; I can practically hear the synapses misfiring.

The wailing is getting closer. The siren's cry pierces straight through my body. I can hear John talking over my head, explaining something to the paramedics. I can't quite work out his words, but the hums and lifts to his voice are enough. They vibrate through my bones, his soothing tones washing over me.

I'm being lifted into the air. They're taking me away. Taking me away from John.

_No. _"No." I cough and sputter out the word, and it sounds feebler than it should. "Not…leaving..." My arms flail out, trying to find him. Finally, I feel him capture his hand in mine, and I hold on for dear life. "I'm—not—leaving. Not. Again."

"Alright. Alright. I'm coming with you. I've got you." He squeezes my hand. "See?"

"John. I won't leave." There's a death rattle all around me. It's my own breathing, bouncing around the small space of the ambulance.

"Sh. It's alright."

"Because I know, _I know_—what leaving—gets me."

"It's alright. Don't try to talk."

"Or rather…I—I know what it—doesn't."

His grip on my hand becomes inescapably tighter.

"Sherlock…" It's a whisper so soft, it sounds like a caress, the vowels curling tenderly. "They're going to sedate you, but no one's leaving. Okay?"

I shake my head frantically. This can't happen again. I can't go back to the blackness. I can't be locked back in my mind.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. I'll stay with you. You'll be fine. Do you trust me?"

"Only. You."

Then, darkness.

**…**

A child runs in front of me, his dark curls bouncing. A shaggy, red dog follows in his wake. The clicks of his paws mix with the loud echoes of the boy's footsteps. They fly up the marble steps, his hand gliding over the glossy bannister of the grand staircase. I try to keep up, but they slip away, out of sight.

When I finally reach the landing, I turn immediately left to head down the hallway. My feet move of their own volition. They know where they're going.

The large, heavy door at the end of the hallway stands open. I move toward it slowly, the familiarity of this scene prickling at the back of my neck. A boy of about fifteen walks by my side. He's a bit round around the edges, the pudgy flesh of his cheeks curling over his thick frown. He doesn't notice me, but we continue walking side-by-side down the hall, our footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting.

We pass through the ornately carved doorway. Affectionately, I take in the clutter and the chaos. Strewn with books and clothes, papers, and other odds and ends, the mess is the only thing that resembles a typical child's room. Everything else is an anomaly. There are no toys, no stuffed animals, no children's books. Instead, there are history books, anatomic models, science kits.

I can see the curly-haired boy across the room. He is on the balcony, the glass doors leading to it thrown open. He's standing on a chair next to a giant telescope. On his tiptoes, he stares into the eyepiece.

"Sherlock," the boy says from next to me.

Disapproval is evident in his tone. Despite this, the little boy looks up at him and beams.

"Come look, My!" he exclaims. "I'm tracking the stars. Come look!"

He leaps down expectantly, offering the telescope to his older brother. Mycroft crosses his arms and arches his brows, unimpressed. He opens his mouth to speak, but the boy cuts him off enthusiastically.

"Did you know that you can use the stars for directions? That's how pirates know where they are! That's how they find their treasure."

"Sherlock—" Mycroft tries again.

"—That's why I'm tracking them," the boy continues happily. "I'm getting good, My! I'm going to be the best pirate in the world someday!"

"Why would you ever want that?"

"Pirates are the greatest adventurers in the world! They are the most feared men on the seven seas! No one can beat them! Nothing can kill them!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Of course that isn't true. Why else do you think that there are no pirates left? They're all dead."

Under the sardonic words, the boy deflates, his shoulders sagging.

"Is _this_ how you choose to waste your time?" Mycroft taunts. He sweeps an arm over to the telescope. It looks ugly and bulky there on the balcony.

And now, I'm the boy, glaring up at Mycroft. The unfairness of the old memory still resonates within me, even now.

"Perhaps this is why you are so very slow. You always have your head in the clouds."

"I'm not slow," I growl, balling my hands into fists.

"Of course you are, little brother; your head is full of stars."

He turns on his heel and heads for the door. "Mummy and Daddy would be so disappointed," he murmurs. I slam the door behind hind him. It bangs shut, the sound deafening in my head. I storm across the room, back over to the telescope. I kick the legs out from underneath it, sending it crashing to the ground. I throw myself down next to it and stare into the dark, yawning sky.

The stars wink at me, twinkling like they're laughing at me. I close my eyes, deleting each one, forgetting every last constellation and planet, and pretend like tears aren't streaking down my cheeks.

**…**

I open them again underneath a completely different sky. This one is blue and endless, not a cloud in sight. The sun is too pale, like the light is being passed through a strainer. Something is lifting me, lifting me up, and forcing me to my feet. I stumble uncertainly. My arms feel too long, and my legs feel too short. My head is so heavy. There's a hand on my neck, guiding me forward. My feet stutter, seeming to move slower than the rest of my body. There's a voice in my ear, grating and loud.

"Right," the voice is saying. "Stop mucking about. Got another one for you."

He shoves me forward, and I almost trip over the body, sprawled obscenely on the concrete. We're in a grey alleyway, full of refuse and rain. I whirl around. Lestrade is frowning at me. His mouth is drifting away, slipping down over his chin. None of his features will stay still. His eye is lazing down his cheek, and his ear is listing its way over his forehead. The waxy warp of his face melts inward, a grotesque caricature.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asks from his neck, his mouth cutting a horrible gash there.

Bones clacking, I turn back to the body lying amongst the trash and the rats. My heart stops. _He's me._ The body is me. John is next to it, and he looks up at me, fury erupting behind his eyes.

"For god's sake," he shouts, "solve the murder!"

I point a quaking figure at the body.

"Save the life."

"NO!" he explodes, leaping to his feet. "I can't. He's dead. He's gone! Now solve it. _Solve it._ Solve the murder!"

"I can't," I counter. "Save him, John. Save the life."

"Solve the murder, save the life." Mycroft walks calmly between us. The tip of his umbrella lands just short of the dead man's head—my head.

"What?" I say. My voice sounds very far away.

"If you solve the murder," he enunciates slowly, "then you can save the life. Solve the murder, save the life," he says simply. It doesn't make sense. _It doesn't make sense._

I stare helplessly at my lifeless face.

"Solve it, Sherlock. Figure it out."

There's an angry buzzing in my ears. There are too many things missing. I look closer at the body. He's missing something, too.

"His heart," I rasp. "He's missing his heart."

The four of us lean over and peer into the black hole at the center of his chest.

"Who is he, anyway?" John asks.

"Me," I hiss. "Don't you see? It's me."

I fall forward, grab the front of his shirt.

"I solved it. I solved it, John. Now save him. Save _me_."

"You're still missing something, Little Brother."

I don't look at him, instead keeping my eyes on John. Sadly, he shakes his head. He crouches down by my inert body and points to my temple.

"It's the bullet that killed him," he says. "Someone shot him straight through the head."

"But the heart," I insist. "Someone took his heart."

No one is listening to me.

"Who killed you Sherlock?" John shouts.

"Figure it out," Mycroft scolds.

"What's taking so long?" Lestrade demands.

They converge on me, a seething, buzzing swarm of words and faces.

"Who killed you?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. _I don't know._" I clamp my hands around my head.

"Oh, but you do know, don't you, Sherlock?" Moriarty's voice floats around us, seemingly disembodied. I jerk around, silently begging that he isn't inside my head. John is looking around too, brow furrowed. _Run, John. Run as far as you can. Don't let him near you. If he gets to you, you will be lost. And all of this will have been for nothing._

I reach for him, and he does the same, the tips of our fingers barely brushing. And then, out of the blackness, out of the hole in my chest, he climbs out, crawling and dragging his way up until he's standing fully formed in front of us.

"You've known all along," he whispers.

"Mary," I gasp. "It was Mary. She killed me. She shot me."

"Good, Sherlock," he lilts. "Good." He reaches a hand out to stroke my cheek, and I jolt away. A sinister smile curls over his face.

"Now, who has your heart?"

**…**

I blink slowly awake. There's a cavity in my chest, an aching void. Something is missing. Its absence is a palpable thing, eating its way through me. Something is missing. I can't figure out what it is until I see his face. The second our eyes meet, warmth rushes through my core and out to the tips of my fingers. And yet, for a reason I can't place, there's a stress-fueled throbbing in my temples. I stare into his eyes, begging for something I don't know how to ask for. He heaves a conspiratorial sigh with the smallest chuckle on the end of it.

"Sherlock Holmes loses his mind."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. A small, fond smile breaks across the worried lines of his face. There is no mockery, no judgment. Just easy acceptance and the smallest pinch of concern, for good measure. And just like that, something within me releases. He makes everything so easy.

"You can never do anything by halves, can you?"

"Of course not, John. Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"I _have_ told you that you're a drama queen, right?"

"It might have come up once or twice."

We both laugh at that, so hard that I don't think we're going to stop. And for a minute, things feel normal. The walls of the hospital fade, and we're back at Baker Street, laughing inappropriately at things no decent person would ever find funny.

_This is why I need you, John. _

When we finally stop, he runs a hand over his face and brings it into a fist under his chin. Eyebrow cocked, he studies me, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"So, what's the verdict? How crazy am I?"

"Uh, jury's still out." A ripple of discomfort passes over his face. "They're going to keep you under observation for a few days at least."

"Whatever for?"

"You're considered to be at risk."

"On what grounds?"

"Well, you _did_ throw yourself off of a building a while back. Doesn't exactly inspire confidence." It's obvious that he's trying for humor, but the hitch in his voice makes it fall just short.

"Oh, for God's sake, that was ages ago! And it wasn't even real."

"Just a magic trick…" he says as though he's just figured something out.

He squints inquisitively at me, and I drop my gaze away. Silence pokes at us, jabs us in the sides, and makes us shift awkwardly. I mesh my fingers together, pull them apart, and push them through again. My eyes follow the path of my fingertips as I bring them in front of my nose. Anxiety is coming off of him in waves.

"If you ask me again, I'll tell you," I say softly.

I risk a glance out of the corner of my eye. He looks conflicted, almost like he's being strangled.

"Maybe another time."

He rubs the top of his legs and pushes to his feet. "I'm not even supposed to be here right now. They wanted to keep you isolated," he says, pacing. "Mycroft had to pull a few strings."

He's a churning mass of agitation. Remnants of pain reawaken and start creeping their way back to the center of my chest. I know I shouldn't push him; I know he's dangerously close to the edge. But I can feel the tilt, the inexorable pull towards this moment.

"John. Ask me again."

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

I bring a thoughtful hand to my chest and kneed my fingers over it.

"I think _reason_ had very little to do with it."

The minutes tick past us. His face softens. There's a kindness in his eyes that I don't entirely deserve.

"I'm tired," I sigh.

"Yeah," he says, coming back to sit next to me. His hand is there again, hovering inches away from me, a breath away from my cheek. Warmth emanates from the palm of his hand, wafting over my face. Something like contentment curls in my chest, but there's an edge of sadness to it.

His face is blurry. But I won't close my eyes. He gives me a small smile, his hand dropping away.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You can sleep. I won't leave."

As though they've been waiting for it, my eyes drop shut.

_Of course you understand, John. You see. John. John Watson. The linchpin. The tipping point to my sanity. The pivot around which my brain spun out of control._

**…**

The cracks are splitting apart. Pieces of the wall fall away, cascading down in sheets. Fractures skitter over the ceiling. Jagged lines. Gnarled fingers clawing a ragged opening to the sky. Mortar and brick rain down upon me, causing earthquake vibrations beneath my feet. The floor groans menacingly, threatening to break apart. Everything is coming down around me.

The cracks are splitting apart. Seams bursting from the wall. Blinding light pours through openings. It blazes, like a fire. Flames lick their way inside. The wood splits, the splinters fly out in a crescendo of staccato eruptions. Snapping like gun shots.

The cracks are splitting apart. I'm buried under the plaster and wood and brick. The weight presses down on me, compresses me into nothing. My bones start to give under the heavy anchors. There are no clean breaks, just a gridwork of corruption and breakage. I'm shattering into pieces.

The cracks are splitting apart.

**…**

Baker Street is in shambles. It's a ruin. A wreckage. I try to lift the pieces, fit them back together, but they just break apart further. And they're shredding my hands. Shredding them to pieces.

The walls are gone. Everything is gone. There's an aching in my head and a rift in my heart.

"Sherlock." John's hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away from the destruction. "It's okay," he whispers. "We can fix it. We can rebuild."

**…**

I wake up with his hand clasped around my wrist. His fingers are trained on the vein that bears the full thrust of my pulse. His arm is stretched over the bed, pinning down the sheets, but I don't mind. It's a nice weight. A reassuring weight. He holds his head in his other arm, his fingers curling over his hair. His grip is stiff around my wrist, unwilling to let go. For the first time in a long time, nothing hurts. All the pain is gone. It's not opaque or smothered; it's not being diluted by painkillers. It is utterly absent.

He starts awake, and his head jerks up to check on me. Worry fills his eyes upon realizing he'd fallen asleep. I meet his gaze calmly, some of the pain starting to pulse toward the center of my chest again. I try to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. He makes no response other than to start to slide his hand away from mine. Instantly, the pain sharpens, focuses. Before I can regulate the movement, my hand flies out to twist up and capture his wrist. And he doesn't resist.

We stay there like that, clasping each other's forearms, our hands in a deadlock. Like he's pulling me up from the edge of a cliff. The pain ebbs. He drifts away first, and I align my breathing so that it's keeping time with his.

An entirely unprecedented feeling settles over me. It's something I don't entirely understand, something I don't even know if I want. It scares me. I feel warm. I feel safe. I feel _whole_.

It scares me.

**…**

The cracks are fading. Pale veins in the wood, crisscrossing and intersecting gently. Spiraling together into a dizzying pattern that renders individual lines indistinguishable. They coalesce and center beneath my feet. The floor ripples under my toes. The splintered foundation is brittle beneath me. I should be worried, but I'm not. I just feel achingly hollow. I'm at a loss and don't know why. An expectant current runs beneath my skin. I'm waiting for something.

John is here now. He is with me now. The emptiness is gone. Smiling, he reaches for me, the cracks healing beneath his feet with every step he takes in my direction. The floor is becoming whole again. The wood rolls gently. I'm thrown off balance by it as I bob up and down over the waves. My hand stretches out to his. His touch is like an anchor for me.

Our hands meet and tangle together. Our fingers unravel into strange, flesh-colored threads. They reweave so that his fibers are twined with mine. Where does he end? Where do I begin? _John. Where are you_? "I'm here." He answers my thoughts with gentle words that reverberate through my ribs. His other hand comes to my heart. _"I'm here."_ I am on solid ground again.

The cracks are gone.

**…**

It scares me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Ian Axel, "Fall on Me"<strong>

**I know I must sound like I'm stuck on some infinitely recurring loop at this point, but I simply must say this again: Thank you for reading and commenting and being just great people in general! xxx**

**PS Don't think that the way will be easy for these two...all I'm gonna say is...John is really good at denial, and Sherlock excels at regression. Angst, I tell you. Angst!**


	14. Chapter 14

_"I worry about him. Constantly."_

Mycroft POV

* * *

><p><span>14. So Afraid to Face an Absolute<span>

The door pushes open quietly. Neither one of them notices me, but then, only one of them is awake. Sherlock is sleeping deeply, and he looks younger than he has in years. John is sitting on the edge of his bed with his hand cupped around Sherlock's cheek. He's leaning over my brother's form. Their faces are so close together that his lips are almost against his forehead. I can see the longing in his hold, and I can read the protectiveness in his body language. He's stiff, like the posture's not completely natural to him. The intimacy scares him, but something stronger than the fear draws his arms around my brother.

I've never liked seeing other people around Sherlock. It always made me uneasy. I didn't trust anyone with him. I feel none of this trepidation with John. Seeing the two of them together brings me a peace that I'm not sure I'm comfortable with. After living so long with the worry, its absence is disconcerting. The comfort is not without an edge of foreboding, however. Because this picture of the two of them is far from absolute, and John's presence by his side is far from guaranteed.

Almost as though he's bodily expressing my concerns, Sherlock jolts up, his arms reaching forward for John. The sudden movement startles John backwards, but he brings reassuring arms around Sherlock, just the same. Spasms continue to rock through my brother's body, and I take a few unrestrained steps toward him. Though to anyone else it would just register as mild concern, what I'm feeling is barely repressed panic.

John only tightens his arms around Sherlock's body, holding him securely to his chest. He's whispering his name quietly, over and over. Something deep within Sherlock's consciousness seems to recognize his voice, and I watch as the tremors incrementally subside.

Sherlock partially wakes, bringing half-lidded eyes to gaze at John.

"What's—What's the matter, John?"

John brushes a hand through Sherlock's curls, his mouth turning down. "You're scaring me, Sherlock," he says gently. There's no blame in his voice, but there is the smallest hint of begging.

"Well, John. _You_ scare _me_." Sherlock smiles benignly at him before allowing his head into the crook of John's neck.

John eases him back into the mattress, hurt evident in the slope of his shoulders. He doesn't understand—doesn't understand the immensity of what Sherlock has just declared. I would explain, but it isn't my job. And something like this is fragile. It takes time.

I draw up to John's side, causing him to jump in surprise. Eyes closed, he recovers himself.

"Mycroft." He barely inclines his chin in my direction. He's angry at me. He blames me for this. It makes sense; he's the type of man who resents helplessness and showing weakness, substituting anger for them instead.

"Hello, John. How is my brother faring?"

"He seemed to be doing better earlier. He was still having nightmares, but he would wake up from them lucid. He's been like this for a couple of hours now, though."

"Has he stayed awake for any length of time?"

"Not really. But he'll have to get up eventually. They still need to evaluate him."

"I'm sure he'll _love_ that." John gives a small chuckle, and it's as close to camaraderie as we're likely to get. I tilt my head to the side. "Perhaps you could wake him for me? I do believe that my brother and I have some things to discuss."

Begrudgingly obedient, John carefully shakes Sherlock awake, keeping his hands tightly wrapped around his shoulders.

It takes a few minutes, but Sherlock's eyes finally open completely, and his gaze slowly clears. Through the entire process of waking, he keeps his eyes firmly riveted on John's face. If Sherlock's sanity is a deeply buried well somewhere in the landscape of his mind, then John is the divining rod. This is what makes him so necessary and so very dangerous.

Sherlock's stare drifts down, and they both at the same time seem to realize the proximity of their bodies on the hospital bed. Almost guiltily, John leaps up, glancing uncertainly at me out of the side of his eyes. Following his gaze, Sherlock's eyes light on me and darken instantly.

"Hello, Brother Mine. I was hoping to have a word with you."

"I don't suppose I get a say in it?"

"Well, I never do," John interjects, glaring at me.

"Won't take long," I continue, ignoring them both. "John can wait in the hall."

They stare at me and then simultaneously turn to look at each other. At Sherlock's nod, John stalks out of the room, slamming the door pointedly behind him. I smile pleasantly at Sherlock, and he glares morosely in return.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Gratitude, Little Brother, would not be remiss."

"Given to you, I'm sure it would be ill-bestowed."

"My, my, aren't we prickly? Though, I suppose going mad will do that to a person."

"Validating as it must be for _you_, your god complex is awfully tiresome for everyone else. So stop preening and just tell me what exactly it is that you want from me."

"I'm here to help you, Sherlock."

"Help me?" he snorts. "If you really wanted to help me, you'd use all of your _connections_ to get me out of here."

"Oh, I don't know. John wants you here, and I know you don't want to disappoint him. He thinks this is the best place for you right now, and for once, I agree with him. Besides, I don't think it would kill you to get some rest.

"So, no, Sherlock. I'm not going to get you _out_, but I did do the next best thing. I got him _in_. You can't imagine how strict these hospitals are. So tedious. It took a surprising amount of clout to get them to allow you visitors. In the end, they did make a special exception—_family_ only."

He freezes at the word and tries to keep his face blank, but I can see everything he's trying to hide. There's guarded curiosity, wondering how much I know. There's repressed fear, worrying about what the significance of his exposed feelings mean to me, and worse, what they mean to him. And there's the smallest glimmer of vulnerability. Because that one word is a door that opens up to countless possibilities that he doesn't even want to let himself consider.

Taking advantage of the pause,—he so rarely runs out of words—I give him a small, knowing smile.

"As you know, my position in the government allows me certain privileges. For example, if there is ever a national emergency, I have a list of people who are to be protected at any and all costs. On that list are four names: Mummy, Father, you," I pause. "And John Watson."

He visibly starts at that, an unspoken question in his eyes.

I nod. "Family. I protect family."

"Not always, Mycroft."

I should have seen that one coming. I set myself up for it. We glare at one another and prepare to square off again.

"What about Mary? Is she protected by proxy?"

"This might surprise you, but I don't feel particularly well-disposed towards Mrs. Watson at present time."

"Mycroft—"

"Enjoyable as it would be to outwit you, I'm afraid that I don't much feel like debating this topic."

He closes his mouth into a resigned line. He knew it would be my answer all along, but he wanted to hear me say it. Because a small part of him—one that he doesn't want to feel but is growing larger every day—feels the same way.

"Would you like to know when Dr. Watson's name joined that illustrious list?"

He's pouting now and refusing to answer me. I sigh. Petulance is so unbecoming of him.

"It was about three years ago," I say, unprompted. "You had just died, if you recall. Almost took John with you, albeit in a different way than he would have preferred."

"Stop it."

"I had never seen a man so utterly destroyed."

"John was not _destroyed_. I saw him after. I knew he would soldier through."

"I wasn't talking about _him_. I saw you, little brother, hours after the fall. Saw what it did to you to leave him behind. You needed him then, and I knew that you would need him unimaginably more when you returned."

"So, on the list he went."

"Indeed."

"You _do_ realize that you're sending signals that are rather mixed."

"How so?"

"You've told me on numerous occasions to hold him at an arm's length, and yet, this whole time, you've been carving out a branch for him on the family tree."

"I thought that maybe there was a chance I could change your mind. Love doesn't make you stronger; it just exposes your vulnerabilities. I was trying to protect you from that. But you are stubborn. You always have been."

His eyes are hard, and it's not hard to see the sheen of denial there. _There's that stubbornness again._ So, he's still repressing his feelings, then, lying about them, even to himself. That's fine. We both know that he'll have to grapple with them eventually. Sooner or later, everything buried comes to the surface. Current events are evidence of that.

"So stubborn," I repeat. "But then, so am I."

His head snaps up in surprise. I stare obstinately back, not willing to yield more ground than I already have. I exhale unwillingly.

"I think, I have to start to accept that not everything you reach for is poisonous. You're not a child anymore. I can't keep everything on the top shelf and out of your grasp."

He rolls his eyes at the metaphor. If I'm being honest, I know I'll never stop treating him like a child, and it's partly because he'll never stop acting like one. A nagging part of me, one that only he can draw out, wants to snap him out of his annoyed indifference. I clear my throat.

"This is a rare thing,—because I am rarely wrong—but I will confess to being happily mistaken about John Watson."

He wheezes in surprise.

"My god, next thing you know, we'll be spilling our deepest, darkest secrets to one another."

"I already know your deepest, darkest secrets, Sherlock."

_Even the ones that you want to pretend don't exist_.

John loudly opens the door to Sherlock's room, shattering the moment. Apparently, our discussion has taken too long for his taste, and apparently, he is less trusting of me than I initially suspected. Arms crossed, he strolls forward.

"Want to wrap this up?"

Without subtlety, he positions himself between me and Sherlock's bed. His hands flex anxiously in and out of fists. He's afraid I'm going to make him worse.

_Dr. Watson, you and I are not so different after all. I fear the same thing from you._

With a glance down at Sherlock, he turns his back to me.

"I ran into a nurse while I was in the hall. Since you're up, they're going to send in the attending psychiatrist to evaluate you."

"Can't you do it?"

"Sherlock," John steps closer to him, eclipsing me. "Don't be difficult. You know I can't."

"No. It's a ridiculous waste of time. The evaluation is standard, and the responses are easily manipulated."

"So tell them what they need to hear! It's not a long trip from the psych ward to a mental hospital, you know."

"It's unnecessary. I don't want these _people_ to come in here and—"

"—I know, I know. They don't understand you. But no matter how much they poke and prod you, you are still going to be smarter than they are."

Instantly, Sherlock's agitation abates. He's looking at John with unadulterated trust. This is unexpected. Whatever is between them goes deeper than I initially thought. I've never seen anyone take my brother apart so efficiently. _Yes, John Watson, you are very, very good for him. But you can also be very, very bad._

John reaches forward, but his inhibitions are back in place, and he can't quite bring himself to touch him. He gives a small, tentative smile.

"So, will you cooperate? Can you do this for me?"

"Yes," Sherlock nods. "For you."

"Good," John says, trailing back toward the door.

"Only you," Sherlock whispers, so quietly that I almost miss it.

"Well," I say, rocking my weight back and forth, "I'll leave you to it."

I pat the metal frame of the bed—the closest we'll ever get to physical affection—and follow John toward the door.

"Oh, Sherlock," I turn to face him on my way out, "once you're done with your little mental vacation, we've got work to do."

"Yes. Eastern Europe is doing some _very _interesting things, isn't it?"

"And here I thought you were losing your touch."

Without further comment, I leave. John makes to follow, but I grab his arm lightly. "Perhaps, you should stay with him until the doctor arrives."

He blinks hard and nods at me, gratitude in his eyes.

"Yeah...Yeah."

* * *

><p>I wait for him in the hall, one foot crossed over the other, umbrella propped by my side. I've always hated hospitals. I hate Sherlock in hospitals even more. And I hate people who put him here. It's not hard to imagine the conflicts that will arise from that in the future.<p>

The passing nurses give me a wide berth, some of them with disapproval in their eyes, others, with awe bordering on fear. Rule-breaking is obviously one of those things that is frowned upon here.

A young woman—determined, enthusiastic, confident—walks up to me. She has intelligent eyes and a capable posture. A tight, professional smile breaks through the composed lines of her face.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Reynolds," she says, extending her hand. "I'll be evaluating your brother."

"Hm." More than likely, it will be the other way around. I take her hand and shake it.

"I take it his partner is in the room with him? The nurses say he's quite devoted. Won't leave his side."

"Ah, yes. He is." I don't bother to contradict her assumption. It's more correct than not, anyway.

"Good. I'll go make my introductions. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. And don't worry; your brother is in good hands."

"Yes, he is." _Though, I'm not talking about yours._

With a final nod, she steps away from me and lets herself into Sherlock's room. John joins me in the hall a few minutes later. Our eyes meet in mutual understanding.

"I just met his doctor," he says. "She's, uh, quite keen."

"Indeed."

"He's going to rip her to shreds."

"Indeed."

John gives a small huff of laughter, but he sobers quickly. I swing my umbrella thoughtfully.

"Well, the good news is, we've managed to keep this out of the papers."

"Good. Nice to know you have your priorities in order."

"Don't condescend to me, John. It's so petty."

"Yeah, well, so's showing up to lord over your brother when he's in the state he's in."

"I came to check on him, John. Despite what you think, I do care about what happens to him."

"Oh, do you? Because you haven't exactly been _hands on_ with him over the last month. My god, I was in way over my head with this! And where were you?"

"If you'll remember, you chose to exclude me, eschewing my help and instead, choosing to deal with him on your own. I understand your desire to blame someone, John. However, I'm not entirely responsible for this. But perhaps you are right to be angry with me."

"What did you do this time?"

"I did what I thought was best for him. Your codependency worried me—still does, in fact. So I tried to convince him that his association with you was a weakness. It would seem that I only partially succeeded."

_Whether he likes it or not, I am the voice in the back of his head, whispering doubts. But something stronger than that kept bringing him back to you._

John puts his hands on his hips and glares at me.

"Mycroft, you are brilliant—a genius, even. But you don't know everything. In fact, in light of recent events, I'd even venture to say that you don't know very much at all. And it's not your fault. You did what you thought was best. I know it's because you care about Sherlock and don't want to see him hurt. But that's just it. That seems to be the goal of everyone around him. There are a lot of people who care about Sherlock. They just don't know how to show it because he doesn't know how to receive it. No one really knows how to care for Sherlock properly."

"I wouldn't say that."

His face reddens in anger, and I know that he's misinterpreted what I'd meant.

"Your way is not always the best way, Mycroft. I'm not saying you don't love your brother. But maybe it's just not translating correctly."

"Now which of us 'doesn't know very much at all,' Dr. Watson?"

"Sorry?"

"John, out of the two people standing in this hallway, one of us _knows exactly what he's doing_. You are exactly right. Out of all of us that care about Sherlock, none of us are particularly adept at it. I am excepting one person from that count."

I give him a very pointed look that he chooses not to respond to. Repression smothers his features. I quirk my mouth and study the handle of my umbrella.

"Sherlock has always been…unique. He didn't start speaking until he was three. But more troubling than that, when anyone spoke to him, he would never even indicate that he understood what was being said to him nor did he respond to them in any way. Our parents tried everything. They took him to speech therapists, child psychologists, and even otolaryngologists, just to make sure he didn't have hearing problems. But Sherlock puzzled them all."

John's clearly wondering what the point to this story is, but he's far too fascinated to interrupt.

"Only I was able to get through to him. I spent hours upon hours every day with him, teaching him how to _see_ the world. We started simply. I would bring him random objects and tell him everything that I knew about them based on what I observed. Soon, Sherlock took up the practice with gusto, spewing information, analyzing the world around him. The way I saw it, Sherlock had been born into a world to which he didn't know how to relate, and I had given him a way to view it."

"If the two of you had such an idyllic brotherly relationship, why the resentment between you now?"

"He was soft, John. We made a game out of dismantling appearances, but we always drew short of disrupting the veneer of our own lives. For all of his cleverness, he lacked introspection, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was a coping mechanism. It didn't take a genius to see Sherlock was different, but maybe it was easier for Sherlock to pretend that he wasn't.

"It became very difficult for him to let people in. And people very rarely knew what to do with him. He is so much more sensitive than he lets on. Growing up, he had to learn how to only rely on himself. He couldn't expect people to coddle him. People resent superiority in others. He was never going to find acceptance, so he needed to learn self-reliance, instead."

"So, you trained him to rebuff affection and forgo meaningful interpersonal relationships?"

"I was protecting him."

"But that doesn't make sense. I've met your parents. They're lovely, and they clearly adore the two of you."

"Your point?"

"What happened to the two of you that made you so afraid of love?"

_Very good, John. Now you're asking the right questions._

"I think we're getting a bit off-topic. I was just getting to the point of my story."

"And what would that be?"

"There was a time when I was the greatest influence on Sherlock's life. But I've been losing my grip for years now." I survey him carefully. "A Holmes knows when he's beaten, but he very rarely admits it." I twirl my umbrella thoughtfully and turn away from him to walk down the hall. "I cede to you, John," I say, too quietly for him to hear.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I do believe I couldn't leave my brother in any more _capable _hands."

* * *

><p><strong>Good God, this thing was exhausting on the dialogue front! The Holmes brothers sure do love their verbal sparring.<strong>

**I've had this headcanon for a while now that Mycroft is the reason that Sherlock started with his deductions...I just love their odd little relationship.**

**Chapter title inspiration: Cary Brothers, "The Glass Parade"**

**xxx**


	15. Chapter 15

_"Okay. Your Way. Always Your Way."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>15. You and I, We're Drifting Over the Edge<span>

I watch Mycroft leave with contradictory pulses of frustration. Part of me wants to demand that he stay here and explain everything to me. He forever seems to know more than he ever lets on, and I'm sick of being left in the dark. The other part of me wants to let him go because talking to him is always inevitably infuriating. He is maddeningly superior with none of Sherlock's _Sherlock-ness_ to redeem him. I don't know why he can't just tell me what he means instead of making mysterious allusions.

"Mycroft."

He turns, eyebrows raised, and I find that I'm at a loss. There's a fluttering at the base of my throat as I stare at him. There was something beguiling to his words, like I was being talked into something that I'd been wanting for a long time but had never before allowed myself to consider. Which is ridiculous, of course, because he hadn't really been saying much of anything.

He takes a few steps in my direction, and I have the strangest urge to hide my expression from him. I feel far too exposed right now.

It's a relief when the door to Sherlock's room opens and Dr. Reynolds steps into the hall between us. She doesn't look nearly as self-assured as she did when I first talked to her. In fact, if it wasn't for the determinedly professional smile on her face, I'd think she looks close to tears. I almost feel sorry for her as I wonder what exactly Sherlock said to reduce her to this.

She clears her throat, and Mycroft drifts over. She consults her clipboard, obviously trying to pull herself together. I draw nearer, scared to hear what she's going to say. I didn't realize it before, but it becomes painfully obvious now that I need someone to reassure me, someone to tell me that he's going to be okay.

"Right," she says firmly. "Well, he granted me permission to share details of his case with you," she nods in my direction, "but not with you." It takes me a minute to realize that she's directed the latter half of that statement at Mycroft.

I expect him to puff up and bully his way into getting answers, but he submits instead. And if I didn't know better, I would say that it almost looks like he has the smallest gleam of triumph in his eyes. With a small nod of the head in my direction, he turns away and resumes his trek down the hall. Dr. Reynolds and I watch his retreating figure in silence. After he's disappeared around the corner, I turn back to face her. The uncertainty is fading away, and she looks confident, poised again.

"So, what can you tell me?"

"He's showing no signs of suicidal ideation or mental instability, and," she flips through some of the charts she's holding, "his drug tests came back negative."

The relief that floods through me is practically staggering. Like the iron vice that was wrapped around my windpipe has finally released. Before I can fully enjoy it, I see her giving me a small, concerned frown.

"His physical condition is not what it should be. His is undernourished and suffering from acute exhaustion. Why did you wait so long to get him help?"

There's blame in her eyes and disapproval in her frown. Taken aback, I wonder why on earth she thinks I have any control over him. Then it hits me. She's assuming a greater intimacy between me and Sherlock; presumably, that we're romantically involved. I think back on Mycroft with irritation. I know he's known this from the start. It's probably why they allowed me to see Sherlock in the first place. For some reason, I don't feel inclined to correct her. It doesn't really matter much to me anymore, and it bothers me even less.

"He often goes several days without eating or sleeping when he's working," I say defensively. "I know it's not the healthiest lifestyle, but that's what he does. It's who he is. And he's always been functional before. Something more is going on with him."

"Yes. Well, he wasn't especially cooperative, but it was apparent in his responses and behavior that he's suffered a trauma. I know he was shot a few months ago. That kind of physical damage can leave an emotional impact, as well. He's likely been under duress for a while now, internalizing and repressing everything. But he reached his breaking point, and that's why he's here now. Can you think of anything that might have happened recently that could have triggered this?"

"How do you mean?"

"There had to have been some kind of stressor that led to this mental break."

I think of Moriarty, but that doesn't seem entirely right. He's faced Moriarty before. There is something else that's scaring him, that's causing him to doubt.

"I'm not sure," I sigh. A heavy weight is settling back over my shoulders.

"You should figure it out. If you don't, there's always a chance that he could suffer a relapse. He really should see a professional when he's released. As it is, there's not much more we can do for him here. I want to keep him for another day or so, but then, I can release him to your custody."

"Yeah. Okay."

"A nurse should be along shortly."

"Thanks."

She leaves me with a curt nod, and I watch her go, feeling slightly betrayed that she wasn't more helpful. There's nothing she told me that I didn't know myself. In fact, I'm quite sure that there are a few things I could tell her, myself.

She pauses halfway down the hall and turns to look at me. "Ah, just wondering," she raises her eyebrows at me, "has he always been like that?"

"Like what?" I feel my hackles rising at the suggestion of judgment in her voice.

"It's just that, sometimes, people don't act like themselves when put under extreme stress. Is it common for him to be, you know…stubborn, belligerent, acerbic, churlish…?"

I decide in this moment that I rather resent her. I hope that whatever Sherlock said to her was devastating.

"You know what? He's always been nothing short of utterly brilliant."

And with that, I stalk over to his door and yank it open.

His eyes are sharp on me as I step partially through and linger in the doorway. Intelligence sparks behind them as they sweep over me, no doubt absorbing everything from my posture to the expression on my face. I'd almost forgotten what that felt like to be so thoroughly analyzed, so completely picked apart. I discover that I'd missed it, especially when I remember the glassy-eyed stare he'd been sporting over the last few weeks.

There's a stronger pull beneath my ribs, and I realize that I'd missed _Sherlock_ too.

I lean up against the edge of the doorframe and lift the corner of my mouth into a genuine smile that falters a bit when he doesn't return it. It's not hard to recognize the closed-off expression he's assumed, like he's taking everything in and giving nothing away. It's how he looks at strangers: people he doesn't trust, people he's still trying to figure out. My hand clenches by my side. I try not to let it worry me, but doubts are burrowing beneath my skin.

A nurse brushes past me and walks over to him. Swiftly, she removes his IV and staunches the blood with deft hands. He doesn't so much as glance at her during the entire process. He never takes his eyes away from me. After some quick adjustments, the nurse leaves us, and I murmur my thanks on Sherlock's behalf as she makes her exit.

And now, it's just the two of us, staring at one another. The air feels heavy, and the mood is much too serious. And his expression is still horribly empty. Cautiously, I step further into his room, letting the door swing shut behind me.

His gaze is still riveted on me as I settle heavily into the chair beside him.

"So," he says. The word rings clear and sharp in the sanitized air. "If they took out my IV, does that mean they're putting me on solid foods?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm no longer considered at risk?"

"That's right."

"And what about you, John? Do you think I'm at risk?"

"No. I know you would never do that."

"Do what?"

"Choose to die."

_"Choose to die,"_ he echoes, running his fingers under his chin. "Fascinating. Most people don't get a say in their deaths, you know. One day, it just happens to them, and then after that, _nothing_ happens to them anymore. It's an interesting concept. Humans are obsessed with death. Always want to conquer it, put a stop to something that is inexorable. I wonder what it says about our desire for control."

He trails away. His eyes are scary and blank, and there's a small, unnerving smile on his lips.

"No, John. I didn't choose to die. Dying is boring. I make choices that are far more interesting."

And he's doing it again. Downplaying it, needing to prove to me that it's nothing. Or maybe he needs to prove it to himself.

"Damn it, Sherlock. This isn't funny." I jump to my feet without meaning to. I pace away from him. Tension throbs around us, churning faster and faster with every fuming step I take.

"I never said it was." There's something off in his tone, and it weighs heavy with a meaning I can't even begin to guess at. It niggles at me, but I push it away, ignore it.

"Just so I know," I say, whirling around, "did you ever consider what it would do to me? Hm? Was I ever a factor in your decisions at all?"

He gives me an infuriatingly haughty look, as though affronted by the stupidity of my question. And I swear to god, for being so happy to see him only moments earlier, the urge to punch him now is almost overwhelming. There's something dark and challenging in his eyes.

"John. Ask me."

And at last, we've reached the moment towards which we have been hurtling all along. And once I start, I don't think that I will never be able to stop.

"Okay. Why. _Why._ Why, Sherlock. Why? God. Damn it, WHY?"

"Because I was afraid."

I don't know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn't that. Shock has robbed me of all my anger and rendered me speechless. He looks more surprised than I do, if that's possible. I don't think he ever meant to let that admission slip. Now, I merely gape at him, my hand drawn inevitably towards him, suspended in the air between us.

"Afraid?"

"Yes, John. Afraid." The annoyance is apparent in his voice as he shifts slightly.

"Of what? Of dying?"

"No. Not really. Not exactly."

"Then what?"

He doesn't answer. He merely _looks_. Almost like he's seeing straight through me. And, then, I remember. _"Well, John, you scare me."_ My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow, but the cottony texture of my throat doesn't want to work with me. He said that he faked his death to protect me. Did he leave me behind to protect himself? There's a realization lurking above my head, a wall threatening to come down.

And still, he is staring at me.

There are times with Sherlock when he'll look at me, and I'll feel us at the edge of _something_. It causes a massive, terrifying upwelling of nameless emotions and wordless sensations within me. And it's times like these that I feel very small, coming up against something impossibly, insurmountably huge.

This is one of those times.

And the longer I look at Sherlock, the less willing I am to face it.

The first instance I can think of this happening was when he stood on a roof, staring down at me, telling me goodbye. I can still feel the cell phone clutched in my hand, the cold plastic a cheap imitation of the man, a lifeless machine, not unlike the one I had compared him to only hours earlier. There had been a cold, cutting wind that day, I remember, and there had been a looming sort of delayed urgency in the air. As I'd said after, I had felt that there was a secret code, something special I was supposed to say that would have stopped him. _"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note…"_ But I still had a gnawing sense that he had never really told me what he was going to put in that note. He had only told me goodbye and stepped off the ledge.

The second instance I can think of is him, standing on a tarmac, looking at me with a peculiar expression of bereavement that didn't quite look at home on his face. Again, there had been a pressing weight against me, like a giant balloon swelling between us, begging to be popped. And it had seemed like if I had only been able to dredge up the right words, they could have broken through. _"John...there's something I should say; I've meant to say always and then never have."_ But he had never told me what he'd always meant to say. He'd shaken it off and walked away.

Those scenes haunt me. Us, hanging by a thread. And at this moment, it's happening again. The immense pressure is back. And it's like we're staring at each other with our eyes resolutely shut. Blocking out the truth. The fear—and I realize now that there's always fear with Sherlock—is greater now. Because I can feel the threat more obtrusively now. Because both times prior to this, he'd managed to slip through the cracks in my life. I can't help but worry that if he gets away again, it will be for good.

And that threat is the specter that is hanging above our heads. I see it in the blankness in his expression that he's getting ready to leave me. My fingers strain upward for his hand. It's almost as if they know that they need to hold on to him. Hold on for dear life. Like they're his lifeline. Or maybe it's the other way around. But they clench back into a fist instead. I know his eyes followed my movement, and I know his mind's filed it away. His bright, sharp eyes go cloudy. I taste words collecting in the sides of my mouth, burning along my tongue.

_"I won't leave you, John,"_ he'd choked out as he went mad in my arms. _Prove it,_ I want to say. _"I won't leave." And why not, Sherlock? "Because I know what leaving gets me," _he'd said. _"Or rather, I know what it doesn't." What does that mean? _It doesn't take much imagination to picture Mycroft's smug, knowing face, fully aware of what it means. And I suppose that I do, too.

I shake my head, push it away. Neither one of us will say a word about it. We're good at self-preservation, Sherlock and I. We know what lines not to cross.

Slowly, he blinks, and I breathe easily again, like I've escaped something monumental. I ease myself back into the chair across from him.

It's not fair to be mad at him; I know. Because the joking is nothing new. It's what the two of us do when unpleasant things arise. But I am angry at him, still. Furious, in fact. Because it's erasure. And I don't want to ignore it and bury it and pretend like it never happened. Sherlock can delete facts and events all he likes, but I can't, and I'm always left with the residual grief and inexplicable guilt, like it's _my_ fault we can't move on because I'm the one who can't let it go. The way he leaves these things behind always makes me feel foolish for holding onto them. I feel pathetic, clinging to the past as he charges forward, impervious to the human weakness known as sentiment.

But, just for now, I let him have this. I heave a heavy sigh.

"They should let you go within the next couple of days. Dr. Reynolds said that she would release you into my custody. Or your brother's if you'd prefer." I tack it on at the end in trepidation. He's still got that blank look, and I don't know if he actually wants to leave with me. At the mention of Mycroft, however, he wrinkles his nose in disgust, and it's all the reassurance I need. He doesn't make an answer, but I can guess what it is easily enough.

"Okay," I say. "So you'll come with me, then. Or I could stay with you at Baker Street."

"But what about M—"

"—_Please,_ don't ask me about Mary. Because I'm having some very uncharitable thoughts, and all of them about her." I feel nausea bubbling up, and it only intensifies as I watch him bring a hand to his chest. "You said her name, you know," I whisper. "While you were sleeping. You were having a nightmare. It was awful, by the sounds of it, but you were in too deep for me to pull you out. But you said her name. And then your eyes flew open, and you grabbed the front of my shirt, and you said, 'Mary shot me,' and then you dropped away. Almost like you were dead." He won't look at me. "Mary shot me," I repeat.

"You already knew that."

"Yes, and you tried to convince me that it wasn't murder—it was _'surgery!'_ Will you tell me now, Sherlock, what really happened?"

He presses his lips tightly together. We both know it, but I need to hear him say it. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

"Why not? Why are you so determined to protect her?"

"Because I was wrong, John. So wrong about her. I looked at her, but I didn't see. Because I chose not to. I didn't want to believe."

"Why?"

The look he gives me is one of such pure desperation and exasperation that I almost want to let him off the hook. But I can't because we need to get this out. I need to know.

"You chose her, John. You _chose _her."

I try to ignore the pain in his voice.

"And how would you have reacted if, after I had just returned from the dead, I told you that the woman you'd chosen wasn't to be trusted?"

"I probably would have chinned you again, at best."

"Indeed. And since I'd already taken enough of a beating that night, I resolved to keep my observations to myself. But I decided that I would watch her. I thought I could see through her, outsmart her."

He looks mournfully at me.

"But sentiment, as it often does, got in the way. And it makes sense, John, that I would see in her the same things you did. And I trusted her, as you did. Cared for her. Look what it cost me." His last sentence hangs weirdly in the air. It has more meaning to him, like he's talking about something else.

"You still haven't answered my question. After she shot you, the truth was obviously out there. You revealed it to me yourself. Why backtrack? Why defend her?"

"Because she's your wife, John, and like it or not. You're not going to leave her. You are, to your core, a loyal, honorable man. And you will stand by her. Forever. Until death do you part."

The force in his voice is layered with other things, things I can't quite parse. Bitterness is in there for sure, and something else that I can't quite figure out.

"So I thought I would sell you a lie, something you could swallow down so that you could have the life you always wanted." The slope of his brows dips down. "A 'thank-you' wouldn't be out of place."

"For what?"

"A happy life, John, with a family."

His sentence comes out abbreviated, like he lost his taste for it halfway through. He thought he was giving me a gift. He's an idiot.

"You thought leaving me in the dark would make me happy?"

He doesn't answer. But he doesn't have to. And here's the man who pretends to hold everything in contempt, the self-proclaimed sociopath. Trying so hard to give me what he thought I needed. Something comes swelling up, but I push it down, along with the thought that I don't have what I need, not yet. Those are dangerous thoughts.

"If you believe that, Sherlock, then you're missing the point of happiness."

We don't speak after that, not for a long time. I know it's because neither of us feels like unpacking that. Instead, we dwindle into our own thoughts, and I have no doubt that both of our minds are cast backwards.

There's a heavy pull to his features when he finally opens his mouth to speak again.

"That's the thing about decisions. Once they're made, you have to live inside of them."

_Yes, and they're looking more and more like ruins every day._

* * *

><p><strong>This isn't super vital to the understanding of the chapter, but when you're on suicide watch, they don't let you eat solid foods. They hook you up to an IV, and all they give you is ice chips. So that's why Sherlock was hooked up to an IV at the beginning of this.<strong>

**Chapter title inspiration: Ed Sheeran, "Fall For You"**

**xxx**


	16. Chapter 16

_"I couldn't solve it before. What makes you think I can solve it now?"_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>16. When the Morning Comes, We'll Know the Truth<span>

We don't want to talk, so we breathe instead. And there's a lot of air in these rooms as a result. The walls expand like lungs, taking it all in, until it feels like the house itself is holding its breath, threatening to let it all go in one devastating gust. We hover in the empty spaces of respiration, the exhales pushing the two of them further apart while at the same time drawing the two of us closer together.

Baker Street feels too small, too stifled. The words we aren't saying rustle in the curtains, creak in the floorboards, and settle in the dust. I tuck myself away into corners, where they can't find me. But they're not easy to evade. John is forever tripping over them, and they seem to press Mary up against the walls.

Mary doesn't want to talk, so she sighs instead. They're heavy sounds, tipping off the edge of her lips and falling flat to the ground. They tell of a wasting grief, a sharp puncturing at the soul. She knows something is wrong, but she won't ask him what it is. At moments, there are small huffs, insubstantial suggestions of words, but they're never fully realized. She sighs instead.

At moments, it almost sounds like relief. And I know she is grateful for the punishment. She carries blame well. But there are small supplications. Whispered breaths reach, like beggars' hands, reaching for John. Late at night, there are hushed conversations, colored with blue, pleading hues. But moments later, the air always shudders with dissatisfaction. Nothing resolves.

John doesn't want to talk, so he paces instead. There's weariness in his tread. And defeat. He is tired. And battered. _Me too, John. Me too. _But there's steadiness there, too. The even thump is a reminder that he's still here. It's reassuring and unbalancing at the same time. Because I've come to depend on his solidness, and that's something that I shouldn't do.

Night after night, I lay awake in my bed, staring at my ceiling, listening to restless footsteps trace themselves around the perimeter of his room, following the same track around and around the flat. Whether it means to or not, the beating of my heart synchs up with the thud of his feet. And though I am lying still, part of me feels like it's out there with him. It's as though something within me is tethered to something in him. And he's dragging me along, bumping me up and down stairs and around corners. I want to sever it, break us apart. But cleaving works two ways; it's splitting and collision: a rubber band being stretched to the breaking point, only to snap back together.

I don't want to talk, so I listen instead. Listen to the breathing, to the sighing, to the creaking. And it strikes me that Baker Street is haunted. Shadows fall long over us, and ghosts drift lazily around us. And demons whisper in my ear. Moriarty still calls to me, teases me, tells me that there is still something that I'm missing.

We pass a week like this, none of us sleeping very much and speaking even less. It doesn't bother me and Mary the way it does John. I lived alone before John, and I lived alone after him, too. Silence has been my constant companion for my entire life, and until three years ago, it was my only one. It's not hard to know which is the more preferred, but it's much more difficult to admit. But still, silence settles comfortably around me, falling easily into the pit of my stomach. Mary doesn't mind it either. She was trained for this: holding on to words while she waits for other people to speak. But John balks beneath it. He doesn't want to talk, but he can't stand the silence.

We eat dinner quietly, just as we always do, eyes following our forks and mouths solely occupied with chewing. When we're done, we separate to our rooms where we wait until it's finally late enough to pretend like we're sleeping. I shut all the lights off and lay in bed. At just past midnight, I hear him, the familiar groan of the floor as his weight passes over it.

I let the sounds lull me into a light stupor, and I'm almost asleep when I hear my door being cracked slightly open. I feel him, just as I always do now. My nerves are splayed, and my skin is ragged. Here, beneath the smothering blanket of night, I let slip one confession to myself: I want him to come closer, need him to step inside. My body screams for contact, but I swallow it down, push it away.

He hangs in the doorway a few more minutes, and I feel my agitation climb its way up my throat. I want him to stay, but I need him to leave. Finally, he grants me a reprieve and retreats back down the hallway.

My body buzzes as if electrified. I should be relieved, but all I can feel is a horrible, throbbing ache. I push to my feet, letting them make the decision for once. _The body reaches for things that the mind rejects._

I trail down the hall, my doubts releasing like a parachute, dragging me back, but something stronger pulls me forward. He's sitting there in his chair, and the familiarity of the scene lands an unexpected blow just below my sternum.

My bones feel unsteady as I shakily lower myself into my chair across from him. His hand reaches for me, and it almost feels like the action was called forth by my own consciousness. Predictably, it drops back into his lap.

"You okay with all of this?"

"Of course," I wave him off. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He grunts, and I hear the stream of sarcastic remarks he's biting back. Tentatively, I bring a foot to rest on his chair opposite me. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. He squints at me, bringing the points of his index fingers together in front of his lips. I can read the hurt in his eyes, and what's worse, I can _feel _it. My heart gives a painful surge, and I plaster my hand against it. Concern flickers through his eyes as he tracks my movement. I can see that he's ready to let me brush it off, ready to let me drop it. He's ready to accept my dismissal again. Willing to repress all of it again, for me. Words cascade out before I can stop them.

"It's just, I can't help but feel like I'm missing something. My brain's trying to make a connection that I can't quite see. I can _feel_ it, pressing right at the periphery of my awareness, but I can't access it. So my mind has been trying to connect other things. It kept forming imaginary lines, throwing me off course."

"You said you were scared, Sherlock. The only other time I've ever seen you that scared was at Baskerville. When you couldn't trust your own senses. When you doubted yourself."

I nod slowly, unable to look up from the floor.

"Is that what happened this time?"

I nod again.

"I just kept missing things. Rational thought was being consumed by…something else."

He looks at me with a question in his eyes. _Don't ask, John. Don't ask. Don't make me say it._ But words come of their own accord.

"I made a mistake. The mistake of caring. And that dictated every decision I made. It's why Moriarty was able to dig under my skin. Magnussen, too."

_I wish I could cut you out, but I can't. You are loomed with me now, John. I can feel you in the weave of my bones. It scares me, more than anything else. Help me, John. Help me._

"There's a reckoning coming, John. I know you can feel it. We've been hovering on the precipice of this for months now. I wonder where we'll land when we finally tumble over the edge."

"Sherlock, if you go up against him again, you're taking me with you. No matter what."

"Well, that settles that," I mutter to myself.

Something huge drops between us, but I shuffle it away, funnel it under the rug.

I can't help a small smile breaking out across my face. Conversation dwindles away without either of us minding it that much. Before I know it, my eyes start drifting shut, and the time I spend studying the backs of my lids stretches longer than the time I spend staring at his face.

Soon, I lose sight of him completely.

**…**

There's a clock on the wall. The iron frame is mottled and bent, all jutting angles and sharp points. The seconds tick by in harsh, metallic clicks. I can feel each beat inside of me, contracting my ribs with every clanging sound. The chiming is ringing, ringing, ringing in my ears. The clock's face warps inwards, collapsing in on itself. I just want the sound to stop—need the sound to stop.

I stumble toward it, meaning to rip it from the wall, but horror stops me short. The clock is bleeding, bleeding red. Its movements are sluggish, the gears jammed in the hot, sticky fluid. The hands tick and tick and tick, but they stay where they are, stuck in a cruel loop, unable to move forward. The ticking grows louder, practically screaming from the stagnation. Blood drips from the pointed end of the second hand. Crimson drops fall on the white carpet.

John's voice explodes across the room. The sound is muffled, like he's talking to me from behind a very thick wall.

"Sherlock!"

I turn to him, needing to see him. But he looks…wrong. He's blurry, fuzzy. Far away. My skin feels like its flying loose from my bones. The marrow is erupting, soaring toward him. My muscles are unravelling into undulating filaments, looking desperately to twine with something else.

"Sherlock," he repeats, and I snap back together. "You have to hurry.

_What's wrong?_

"You're running out of time. You have to solve it."

His gaze is beyond me, over my shoulder. I let his eyes escort me back around.

The clock is still there, bigger than before. The ticking is maddening, pounding deep inside my skull. I clutch the sides of my head, staggering backward. My vision doubles, and there are two melting clocks in front of me now.

"You have to hurry. Figure it out, Sherlock. Please, for me."

The clocks are reforming, reshaping themselves. They're perfect circles again. Liquid gold pours over the metal, creating gilded, gleaming edges. They morph into glasses before my eyes. Pale blue eyes gaze out at me through them. They're dead at the center. They blink calmly at me, each fall of the lid like the swipe of an x-ray machine.

Light flashes through them, the glass lenses glinting dangerously. The pupils dilate. Blackness is growing, reaching out to the whites of his eyes. Two faces emerge from the darkness, framed by gold edges.

Moriarty is looking out at me, his lips pursed somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. Head tilted, he gives a small jerk of the chin, and I glance over to where he's indicating. When I see her, there is no shock. Just an easy realization. Pieces falling into place.

They blink at me in synchronicity. Mirror images of one another. Their faces are melding. Twisting together. Becoming one.

**…**

John's hand is on my knee, shaking me easily awake.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? What are you saying?"

"Mary," I gasp, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt. "We have to talk about Mary."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Jack's Mannequin, "Keep Rising"<strong>


	17. Chapter 17

_"This is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen. Then, we decide if we want you or not."_

Sherlock POV.

* * *

><p><span>17. Talking is Cheap, and Your Lies Were Expensive<span>

There are two types of anger when it comes to John Watson. Two sides to him.

One of them is loud, explosive, barely controlled. It's visceral emotion—anger that percolates just below the surface of his skin, churns in his veins, and erupts out of his pores. The heat of it cascades through him, sweeps him away before he's able to stop it. Punctured by shouts and occasional fists, it's reactionary, but there is no real thrust behind it. The fuse, once lit, burns hot. But eventually, it burns itself out. But there is no real threat to it.

The other side of it, however, is quiet. Dangerous. It takes root deep inside of him and freezes at the core. And it sits there, heavy, inside of him, reaching icy fingers around his bones, setting them into steel. The calm, cruel rage ekes into his eyes and hardens into frost around the irises. It sinks down in his throat and creeps out of his voice. And when he speaks, his words slither in and seize you up in a cold vice. The very air around him oscillates with the repressed, controlled fury, and it lashes out and strikes with vehement precision. _That_ anger never misses its mark.

And right now, it is aimed directly at Mary.

When she comes downstairs in the morning, the chair is already waiting for her, and we, with it. She doesn't hesitate when she sees it, but she does pause, like she's considering it, understanding what it means. The chair makes a horrible, screeching sound as she drags it over the floor. The legs leave tiny, white scrapes in the dark wood. Microscopic splinters.

John next to me is rigid, his fingers curled over the armrests, his feet planted solidly on the floor. As she sits, his eyes track her unforgivingly, brows drawn down with a glare sharp enough to pierce. I tent my fingers in front of me bending and straightening them and watching the tips of them rise and fall. John reaches a hand toward me and then balls it into a fist. For a very brief second, our eyes meet. Beneath the cold, hard, fury, I see the vulnerability, the pain.

A sting that has nothing to do with a bullet wound shoots through my chest, and my hand splays over it.

_Heartache_. It's an unwelcome revelation, one that I press down until it's so small and shoved so far into the corners of my mind that I can pretend like it's not there.

John points a quivering finger in my direction and turns accusatorily toward Mary.

"Seven hours." The words fall onto the floor between us. Mary doesn't even blink. John takes a deep breath. "He was in surgery for seven hours." His hand falls back to the arm rest. "You took him away from me for _seven hours._ And it almost was forever."

A nerve, buried deep inside of him, strung out like a tripwire, appears to have been struck. It's the only possible reason I can fathom for the words that just came out of his mouth. An entirely different kind of ache surges through my heart and courses through my fingertips.

"Now," he continues, "the lying, I could forgive. The secrets, I could forgive. But _that_? That, I can't forgive. I told myself I could, but the anger, it festered."

Mary's eyes lock onto mine, and I see pain, regret, and the smallest spark of betrayal. It's begrudgingly there, almost like she doesn't want to feel it, and she swallows bitterly. The sweep of her eyelashes carries the aftereffects of mourning. And John's not even done yet.

"How could you do that? Hm? You saw, _you saw,_ what it did to me the first time, when I thought it was forever. How could you do that to me?"

"John—"

"No. No. Because you weren't done yet. Because you almost took him from me _again_."

I suddenly become aware of the bruising my fingers are causing. I pull my hand away and look at John. I'm feeling something very close to touched. The upsurge of gratitude throws me off balance; I'm not entirely sure how to respond to it. So I push it away.

"He went half-mad trying to deal with it all. He lied to himself, ignored all of the evidence in front of him, shot a man. For you. To protect you."

Mary shakes her head gently.

"No," she says softly. "He did it for you, John. All for you. He didn't want to see your world pulled apart, so he did everything he could to keep it intact. And it tore him apart. That was for _you_. I did what I did for the same reasons."

It's my turn to look betrayed. I feel like she's revealed something precious and raw within me: something that can't be exposed to air, lest it become corroded or rusted or otherwise destroyed. I glance over at John, inexplicably panicked.

But he doesn't let himself process what she'd said. There's a closed-off, reserved quality to his features, a wall of willful ignorance that can't be breached. _Good, John. That's good. Dig the hole, and bury it deep._

"Don't," he says forcibly. "Don't say that you did _any _of this for me. At best, it was for you. At worst, you did it for Moriarty."

She freezes. I know that when she came downstairs, she'd expected as much, but I also knew that she'd been hoping against all possibilities of hope that it was something else. Because this was one betrayal too far. We are way over a line. In fact, we've left it so far behind that it's a small speck on the distant horizon.

All along, John and I had known that Mary had affiliations with Magnussen. This much, we'd accepted. This much, we'd minimally discussed months ago and then moved on. Because he was dead and gone, and because whatever capacity she'd served him, it was likely something to do with her past. But associations with Moriarty, well, that had all sorts of insidious implications. All of which were rotating round and round John's head.

John's jaw is clenching and unclenching, his nerves jumping in his neck. Resignedly Mary purses her lips and drops her head. She folds steady fingers together and clasps her hands together.

"What do you want to know?" she asks, addressing the floor.

"Everything."

"Well," she glances up. "What do you already know?" The question is obviously directed at me.

"I know that you were not born Mary Morstan, and I know that you had someone very proficient construct a very elaborate lie for you. The cover identity he created for you was comprehensive. Impressively so. Presumably, it was Moriarty. After all, he created Richard Brook, and it took Mycroft two years to pull it apart. And that was when he _knew _he was looking at a lie.

"You, you could have lived out the rest of your life as Mary Watson, and no one would have ever been the wiser. But Magnussen knew the truth, which he threatened to reveal. So, he had to die. Right?"

She nodded.

"But I interrupted that, so you had to improvise. After that night, we found out who you were, so Magnussen lost _that_ leverage on you, but he had more. And it was more dangerous, more fatal. We know what happened after that."

We fall silent for a minute, contemplating that. John and I had never talked about it. I barely thought about it. Most people would, no matter how bad the person they'd shot had been. And Magnussen was awful. Truly reprehensible. He was able to stir something in me that no one else could: hatred. And a true, bone-deep kind of dread. He wielded devastating power, and he'd threatened to bring the full weight of it down on Mary. And John.

John. The man who makes me feel what no one can: fear. It's deep and primal and makes my stomach twist over on itself. It's why I can't trust myself around him. I am too willing to throw everything away for him. Mycroft, annoyingly, had been right about that. John is a weakness. A huge, gaping hole blown wide through me. I would fall off the edge of buildings, take and shoot bullets for him, but I would never take him down with me. I left him behind, gave him away to someone else, before I did that.

And I should cringe from him, but I can't. My heart beats persistently, strains desperately, no matter how hard I press against it, push it away. My mind tries desperately to reject him, but my heart aches. It's like muscle memory, my body falling naturally into the pattern, being dragged towards him. My skin is drawn taut and seems to fall loose at the same time.

And I push it away. I push it all away.

"And that's what I know," I say after too long a pause. "There are some things I'm a little uncertain of. Would you be so obliging as to fill in the blanks?"

Mary nodded, and when she spoke, her voice was thick, labored.

"You've pretty much got it. You know what I was doing…before. Moriarty knew that I wanted out, so he gave me a way. He suspected that you were still alive, Sherlock, and when his network started rupturing, his suspicions only grew.

"He decided that if anyone knew whether or not you were still alive, it would be John." She risks a glance in his direction. "So he reached out to me, offered to rewrite my history, scrub my record clean."

"In exchange from what?" John leaps out of his chair, knocking it backward. "Spying on me?" The anger is running hot now, mixing with the cold. It's a dangerous, volatile chemical reaction.

A single tear escapes down Mary's cheek, and that opens the gates for more. "John, please! That might have been how it started out, but I changed. I became a different person with you. You were good, you were solid, whole. I lived most of my life with someone else's name, inside someone else's life. I came from nowhere, and I was going nowhere, and then, I met you, and, it was like…like,"

"Coming home," I finish, before my better sense can kick in and stop the words.

At that, fury falls from John's shoulders, and he turns very slowly to look at me. And I can read everything about that man, from the arch of his brows to the shine of his shoes, but I can't for the life of me figure out what's in those eyes as he stares at me. But I know that it's crucial, just barely verging on devastating.

"And Magnussen knew that you were Moriarty's mole," I continue, bluntly cutting through the thickness of the situation, dispelling the words that aren't being said. "But it didn't matter. Not until I came back."

"You were supposed to be dead," she whispered. "I honestly thought you were dead. I knew that eventually, you would get too close, so I tried to bury it all before you did." She heaves a sob and wipes her eyes. "But with Magnussen dead, it just opened the door for Moriarty." Something about the way she says it, heavy with dread, catches my attention. "And Moriarty knows everything that Magnussen did. He knows all about who I used to work for."

John slowly sags back into his seat, looking defeated.

"Do you want me to leave?" she whispers.

He shrugs abjectly. "I need you to get out of my sight."

With some difficultly, she pushes to her feet and walks across the room and heavily up the stairs.

"Mary."

She paused halfway up and turns to look at me.

"The people you used to work for…were they connected with Eastern Europe in any way?"

"Now, how did you know that?"

We simultaneously frown at each other. But she doesn't stick around for an answer. She just starts climbing again. After a minute, I hear the distant click of the door.

I turn to John, who's raking his fingers through his hair, pulling it up in tufts. He's drifting dangerously close to looking unhinged, and I draw tentatively over to him.

"John—"

He jumps to his feet again, and I brace myself for whatever blow he's about to land. Nothing prepares me for what he does next. It's a completely different punch to the gut. His hand flies up to my shoulder, capturing it in a tight, unescapable grip.

We both, I notice, seem a little short of breath. He lays his head in the crook of his elbow and just leans against me. Almost like they're at a pulse point, our bodies throb at that one point of contact, and my mind goes hopelessly, uselessly blank. He seems to be asking me for something, and my heart stutters, and my stomach drops, like I've missed a step.

Nerves shaken loose, I start to lift my hand. It's heavy, like gravity has just multiplied the force of its pull on that single part of my body. I land it heavily on John's arm.

We hang in that moment, and I feel my skin unravel. We blend together, invisible strands of our skin weaving together.

"Sherlock."

"John?"

"I am so tired of this. Aren't you tired?"

I give a light hum. He looks up at me. Our hands stay glued where they are.

"I keep waiting for things to go back to normal," he says. "But I'm starting to think that that's never going to happen."

I say nothing in the face of that declaration.

It hangs, heavy, there as the impossibility of 'never' spirals between us.

* * *

><p><strong>This is neither here nor there, but the timeline that I'm assuming is that John and Mary's wedding happened in August, which would place Magnussen's shooting in December. (I know that in the show, the wedding invitations give the date as being in May, but the blog says the wedding happened in August, and that makes more chronological sense to me.)<strong>

**Thanks to thanangst for the lovely image of the heart having muscle memory. I couldn't think of a more perfect way to describe the way they feel about each other!**

**Chapter title inspiration: Mayday Parade, "Angels"**

**xxx**


	18. Chapter 18

_"I just let it slide. I let it all slide."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>18. Hearts, They Don't Lie; They Just Quiver in Fear<span>

When Mary leaves, I feel a small part of me chip away. I wait for the rest of it to come crashing down, but I stay surprisingly intact. I expect it to be worse, but the pieces don't want to come apart. I feel the fracturing, but I know what it is to be shattered, and this is nothing. There's sadness, of course; but I've known devastation, and this is nowhere near _that_. It should hurt more, but it doesn't.

I've discovered that there is always a 'but' when it comes to Mary. And I'm finding it harder and harder to reconcile myself to this fact.

When I met her, she had been a reprieve. Sherlock was gone, and it was like I'd forgotten how to breathe. My chest was tight, and my bones were heavy. Like all the air had been sucked out of my body and replaced with lead. And if it hadn't been for that weight, I thought I might have floated away. I spent my days numb, disconnected. And as miserable as it was, I would have given anything for that detachment to continue into night. Because the nightmares came at night, and so did the sickness. I had to watch him tumble over the edge, over and over again, and I would wake up winded and shaking and sick at the heart.

Then, I met Mary, and it was like I'd finally stopped gasping for breath. She simplified things, delineated them. And she changed things. But not in the same way that Sherlock had. Sherlock had been an explosion. He burst into one side of my life, turned everything upside-down, and blasted out the other end. Learning to live with him had been a culture shock, but nothing ever could have prepared me for the blow of losing him. I just hadn't expected him to leave as big of a hole as he did. He left everything crooked, warped, and impossibly messy. Mary had cleaned it all up and set it to rights. With her, my life realigned into something easier, something more mundane.

She made things simple. Things with her were plainly felt. I loved her. I could see a future with her. Where there was once blackness, she had given me a very small light with the potential to grow. But even then, I could feel that something was off. There was a caveat lurking behind her consolations, a warning in her easy acceptance. I should have known it then. No sane person would have looked at the mess of who I'd become and stuck her hands in as willingly as Mary had.

But I wasn't looking for sane. I think, subconsciously, I'd been looking for Sherlock all along. But Mary wasn't complicated the way Sherlock was. Or maybe, it was that the way I felt with her wasn't complicated in the way that it was with him.

Even her deception was simple. She loves me. She lied. But she didn't lie about loving me. She made a mistake, and she is terribly sorry for it. Despite it all, my feelings with her are still simple. I love her. I blame her. I hate what she did, but I don't hate her. I can see the black and white of what she did and of who she is. She left invisible seams and clean breaks.

With Sherlock, there are layers: confusing, conflicting emotions that swirl together and hold me hostage. I feel the anger, the betrayal, the abandonment, the friendship, the trust, and the attachment. But interwoven with those are complicated _things_ that pull at my heart and drop into my stomach and make my veins feel like they're trying to jump out of my skin. And I don't know what to do with that. Other than look very resolutely in the other direction.

Because more than anything else, I feel the fear. It's a surface emotion, one into which I won't allow myself to sink deeper. But it's easy enough to guess where it stems from. Because Sherlock doesn't leave clean breaks. He seeps his way into my every pore, and then, he detonates.

And even knowing this, I stay. Because those little, liminal emotions, the ones that bleed into the more certain ones, they won't let me leave. We've got our hooks sunk into each other, so deep that I could feel the flesh tearing when he'd started to drift away.

I've run out of excuses to give myself for that, so now, I just pretend that it's not there. Everyone else is fantastic at deception, (both of themselves and of others) so why not me?

But sometimes, when sleepless nights drive me half-mad, and my mind is given leave to wander, a creeping, unwelcome thought nudges at me, and it tells me that I have to come to terms with the uncomfortable reality that when I look at Mary, I don't feel half the things for her that I feel when I look at Sherlock. I assure myself with the old adage that quantity doesn't always mean quality, and I wear that like armor. But the horrible, gut-wrenching truth is that there are pockets within me, deep wells, holes that want filling, that aren't quite Mary's size.

When Mary leaves, she opens a hole of her own. Not a gaping one, but a puncture wound, nonetheless. Sherlock and I watch, silently, as she walks down the stairs and out of the house. She doesn't even close the door behind her. Sherlock watches from the window, his face inscrutable. She didn't pack a suitcase, so I'll know she'll be back. I don't have enough energy to deal with that one way or another.

I trail over to my chair and sit down. An odd, rippling peace is coming over me. It's placid, only disturbed by stray thoughts of her. Instead of entertaining them, I watch Sherlock. He doesn't turn around to look at me, but I know he's watching me, in his way. He's weirdly attuned to me now, and I, to him. I find that we orient ourselves around each other, shift almost imperceptibly to line ourselves up. It makes me jittery, and it makes the air jump. I can feel the vibrations between us, and even if I knew how to stop them, I don't think I would.

"You know," Sherlock says softly, still facing the window, "you give whole new meaning to the phrase, 'loyal to a fault.'"

Astoundingly, I start to laugh at that. It's a forceful, unstoppable sound that bursts out of my lungs and swells in my throat. I double over with the force of it, and a small part of me worries that I'm going to crack my ribs. I glance up to see Sherlock laughing, too, but I know that it's his delayed laughter, the kind that sparks up after seeing _me_ laugh. He's turned around to face me, and he looks so much like his old self: so shrewd, so intelligent, so unruffled, that I want to get up and hug him. Part of me is afraid that if I do, I'll never let him go.

We dwindle into a pleasant silence, and he comes over to join me, settling easily into his chair. As is his wont, he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his long, slender fingers over the tops of his knees. He peers up at me and studies me carefully. His stare is critical, and he looks frustrated, tormented, almost. The longer he stares at me, it only seems to intensify.

I'm not the only one who hasn't been sleeping, I see. His complexion is ashen, and his eyes are bloodshot. The grey-tinged expanse of his skin is punctuated only by the dark circles under his eyes. I feel a flutter of apprehension, threatening to burst into something more frantic. _He can't do this again. He can' slip away again._

My worry must be plain on my face, because the unsatisfied look on his face is gone, replaced with one of appraisement.

"You look like hell," I grunt, gesturing vaguely in his direction.

He raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

"Then you must be my mirror."

Lips pressed together, I nod at that, like that holds some greater truth.

"You're causing yourself unnecessary suffering, you know," he continues. "It's so simple, John. Humans make everything so complicated…with their _feelings_." He says the last word with distaste, and his expression is somewhat far away, like the second half of that wasn't meant for me. "You just have to…look past it."

"How did you do it?" I say calmly.

"Do what?"

"How did you look past it?"

He blinks a few times, and I get the distinct impression that we're having two separate conversations. Then, his eyes refocus, and he seems to realize that we're talking about Mary. He shrugs.

"I understand the logic of it."

"Please, do explain."

"Humans are, first and foremost, animals. And the primary thing that animals do is survive. Every day, we make decisions based on this primary motivating force. Most of it's subconscious. In everything we do, whether we realize it or not, we are measuring what is and what is not necessary for our survival. Breathing, eating, sleeping. Those are the easy ones. Then, we get past survival mode, and we get to the second tier: quality of life. What we can and cannot handle. And we make decisions based on the conclusions we draw. Mary couldn't handle losing you, so she did what she could live with. She will always protect you. At any cost. And I cannot blame her for that because it's the same principle that has guided my actions, several times over."

This is dangerous. I can feel it. We're still at the edge of this; there's still time to run. But Sherlock is staring at me with a determined sheen to his eye, and I decide that if he won't look away, I won't either.

"You almost didn't survive her, though."

Thoughtfully, he brings a hand to his chest. Every time he does that, it makes me more and more uneasy.

"It's odd, isn't it," he says, "to think about the way that people just _happen _to each other. Like they're an event."

I cock an eyebrow.

"You've never seemed particularly affected in that regard."

"I'm a hard man to impress. It would take quite a bit of effort to make an impact."

"Has it ever happened before?"

"Just once. I remember the moment perfectly." His gaze is cutting a sharp line right through me. Inexplicably, my heart is hammering against my ribcage. His hand clenches tighter against his chest. "It happened when a stranger saved my life."

My mouth feels cottony, and my limbs feel very, very far away. Saving me the trouble of scrambling for a response, he keeps talking.

"There are few things that can so drastically transform a person. So it would make sense that the moment that changed me would have changed everything. It became a fixed event in time. A sticking point in memory." He pauses, and we both try to deconstruct that. "Change is not always welcome, but if it's radical enough, it realigns everything; becomes the new normal. Do you know what I'm talking about, John?"

The question is drawn taut between us, and I see the smallest flicker of nervousness across his face. It sends a terrifying streak of fear through me. I don't fully trust my voice to respond.

"I think I might have an idea."

His eyes are inescapable. And we seem to be on the cusp of something. We've always seemed to exist on the cusp of _something_. The layers are there again: the fondness, the closeness, the strangest hope, and the fear. The ever-present fear. He opens his mouth to speak again, and I'm not sure if I can face whatever it is that he's about to say.

"We have a visitor." He turns his head to the door without taking his eyes off of me. "Hello, Ms. Adler."

With a jerk, I look over at her. I hadn't even heard her come in. Sherlock's gaze flicks over to her, analyzes her with quick movements of his eyes. I wonder what he reads in her.

"So," he says, dropping his feet to the floor. "You've finally gotten desperate enough to go to Mycroft."

"I thought your brother and I might be able to reach some common ground."

Sherlock gives a snort of laughter and stands up and paces over to the window.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing." The superior tone to his voice gives me a vicious stab of satisfaction. He looks amusedly over at her. "We all have our habits to sustain, and your lifestyle often requires a benefactor."

"I don't know about that." She slinks into the room, fingertips gliding over the surface of the desk. "I've always managed to provide pretty well for myself." She sinks a hip onto the edge of the table, tucking one foot behind her other leg. Suggestively, she traces her fingers over the curve of her thigh.

Inexplicably, I feel a swell of anger. I don't like her around Sherlock. Unimpressed, Sherlock blinks at her. "It's true; you are the consummate survivor. Which is why you know to retreat to higher ground when you start getting in too deep. Who's coming after you?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she looks over her shoulder to where Mycroft is coming through the door. Sherlock doesn't look surprised to see him. He lands the tip of the umbrella on the ground and surveys the room.

"Moriarty has been quiet for a long time. Too long." He stares around at us all. "There is danger in his silences. It's time to start filling in the blanks."

* * *

><p><strong>I'm prone to abstractions, and I often stagnate plot in the favor of exploring characters and their psychology. But I will say that the next chapter is long and a bit of a doozie. (I have it about half-written.)<strong>

**I hope these last few chapters haven't been disappointing; I worry so much about letting y'all down!**

**Chapter title inspiration: Mayday Parade, "Just Say You're Not Into It"**

**xxx**


	19. Chapter 19

_"Will caring about them help save them?"_

John POV

**[Warning: Brief Mentions of Past Traumatic Events]**

* * *

><p><span>19. The Refuge That You've Built to Flee<span>

Mycroft hovers in the doorway, impatient and harried. It leaves me feeling spiteful, and I'm glad that Sherlock looks equally defiant. Glad to see some of the fight coming back to him. But that doesn't mean he's ready for this, and I can't believe that Mycroft thinks that he is. Sherlock only just got out of the hospital and is still wobbly on his feet. I still catch him wincing in pain and clutching his head at odd moments, though not with the same frequency as before.

And I just want to throw myself in front of Sherlock. Shield him from all of this. It doesn't seem fair that there are so many expectations heaped on him. People make demands of him all day, use him for their own purposes, and then discard him like he's nothing to them. They treat him like he's something that's less than human. I see it in the way that they mock him and dismiss him and verbally abuse him and then turn around and expect him to solve all of their problems for them, to walk into danger for them, to throw away his life for them.

I know Sherlock's not innocent in all of this. I know that he instigates these things and goads confrontations from people. But I also know that it's his defense mechanism, his knee-jerk reaction to interacting with other people. It's all a ruse, of course; a self-delusion. Same as his auto diagnosis as a sociopath. He rejects people before they can reject him.

That doesn't make it any easier for me to watch people mistreat him, though. The open cruelty wounds me. It doesn't bother him in the same way. He asked me once why it upset me so much what other people thought of him, and I didn't have an answer for him at the time. I couldn't put my finger on it. But I've finally figured out what bothers me about it. It's that after so many years of the same punishing reception from people, he's begun to expect it, and what's more, I think he's begun to think that it's what he deserves. This hurts me more than anything else. Because he is worth so much more than he gives himself credit for.

I glance over at him, only to find him already looking at me. And it nearly guts me. Because sometimes, I feel like that look can pass all the way through me, rip out everything inside of me, and just keep going and going and going.

His eyes bore into mine, and I feel my own expression give, cave in to let him in.

And there are those layers again.

My hand curls into a fist at my side when it really wants to reach for him, instead. I see his hand splay ever so slightly. Static permeates the dead air between us. I can feel it building at the base of my spine, shooting through my fingertips, buzzing in my ears. Mycroft clears his throat pointedly, and I suddenly remember that Sherlock and I are not alone in the room. I look over at Mycroft and Irene. I wonder if they can hear the buzzing, too.

"Shall we?" Mycroft asks, brows raised. He traces a finger down the doorframe. "It's quite rude to keep people waiting, you know."

I open my mouth to show Mycroft what rude truly looks like just as Sherlock crosses the room to stand beside me. And that damned buzzing only grows louder. The backs of our hands brush, and I lose my words in the confusing, fleeting contact.

Irene slides off the desk and slinks across the room. Sherlock's eyes track her, and my annoyance spikes. I'm not sure who it's directed at this time. She and Mycroft watch us expectantly, but I ignore them momentarily and turn to Sherlock. There's a weighty, challenging sheen to his eyes.

"Well? Shall we, John?"

"Sherlock," my hand falters upwards, "you don't have to do this. Not everything is your responsibility. This doesn't have to be your problem. You've been through an ordeal. You—"

"—You don't think I'm capable?"

His hostility is unexpected, and it knocks me off balance. My hand drops back to my side, curls back into a fist. I feel like I've stumbled a few steps behind. Looking closer, I see what he's hiding behind the aggression: the pain. I've hurt his feelings. Those feelings he pretends not to have. But I've hurt him, and now, he's lashing out.

And it's the most wondrous thing, but it's almost like _I _can feel _his_ hurt. I am too aware of him, feel him too acutely. We stand there, trading pain, pushing it back and forth between us, and it rolls like waves. I wish I knew how to fix this; wish I understood how I had hurt him in the first place. And then it hits me. The doubt. He can't stand to think that I've lost faith in him.

_Don't you understand? I'm worried about you. I'm trying to protect you, you infuriating, mad, brilliant man. And you're scaring me. I know you see it. You scare me._

A spasm crosses his face, and it twists something inside of me, deep down in my stomach. My hand flies out of its fist, reaches for him, and stops. But then, something strange happens. Because he reaches for me at the same time. Lightly, almost without cause, his fingers brush against mine, threading accidentally together. And then they jump apart, shocked at the contact.

"Yes," I say, not sure which question I'm answering. I shake my head to clear it. "Yeah. Let's go."

Mycroft and Irene lead the way, and we trail down the stairs behind them, the static crackling between us. I can't look at him. I'm too afraid of what I will find in the spaces between his blinks. The car is idling outside the door, and Irene and Sherlock get in. I move to climb in after them, but Mycroft pulls me aside.

"A word, Dr. Watson?"

I cross my arms at him, granting neither affirmation nor denial. Predictably, this does not perturb him. If anything, he seems to settle in, puff himself up, inside of my disapproval.

"Well?"

His mouth stretches into an insincere smile. It's a testy smile, a smile that pulls information out of you.

"Would it be unfair to ask you what your intentions are with my brother, Dr. Watson?"

I stiffen immediately. Internally, I curse myself for doing so because I know he can see it, and I know he's reading a million different things in that nonverbal response and tucking that information away. I'm dead in the water before I even open my mouth. But I can't fight the tenseness out of my shoulders, can't ease the rigidity in my back. I inject more stubbornness into my posture.

"It would be unwise."

His face is impassive, and the sweep of his eyes is swift and annoyingly omniscient.

"You seem uneasy, John. Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing," I hedge, trying to move to get into the car.

"You seem _scared_."

I clench my jaw. I wonder if Mycroft can taste the smugness in his words. It would certainly explain why he seems to relish them so much. His mouth stretches across his face.

"Does my brother scare you, John? Because you certainly scare him."

He laughs then, something I've never actually seen him do. It's an amused little chuckle, a self-satisfied thing that he keeps close to his lips, and it really, really hacks me off.

"And what is so amusing?"

"Nothing," he smiles, gesturing me towards the car. "Just…different words for the same thing," he muses. _Whatever that means._ But still, my heart is pounding like I've just let loose some great secret that I'd never really had very good hold of in the first place.

Sherlock's eyes are riveted upon me as I climb into the car and sit down next to him. Silence permeates the spaces between us, and it is thrown in sharp contrast against the frantic, alive hum that's jumping beneath my skin. It's unnerving. But the quiet is unnerving, too, albeit in a different way. It's a tense hush, a smothering presence in the hermetic seal of the car.

I suddenly wish that Sherlock was a lot closer and much further away at the same time.

* * *

><p>Once inside Mycroft's office, I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk, but Sherlock remains standing next to me, quivering with restless energy. Irene had stayed in the car and is likely being whisked off to some mystery place to do some vague secret thing for Mycroft. I find that I'm not especially interested in what that is.<p>

Mycroft sits across from us, looking weary for the smallest second. He rubs his temples and shuffles his papers around.

"Well?" Sherlock says impatiently. "What did you parade us down here for? And why couldn't you have told us back at the flat?"

"Because we don't know who's listening at the flat and security there is not guaranteed. Which is also why I think a relocation is in order."

I wait for Sherlock to argue, but he stays oddly silent. I look up at him to find him staring down at me, considering.

"What about Mary?" he asks after a while.

"Mrs. Watson is currently otherwise engaged, and I do not believe she'll be joining you."

I'm relieved that it's Mary's decision to be apart. Because whether I like it or not, I can't shake the pull of loyalty when it comes to her. It was why she'd ended up staying with us when I went back to Baker Street to watch over Sherlock, and it was why I kept taking her back after every injury she dealt me. And I realize that I shouldn't feel this boxed in, shouldn't feel this trapped, by someone I'm supposed to love.

But I do still love her. It's a watered down emotion, though, diluted by anger and hurt and betrayal.

Sherlock looks troubled. "Mycroft," he starts suspiciously. "You wouldn't be the one with whom Mary is occupying her time, would you?"

"In fact, I am. She contacted me some hours earlier and shared some rather interesting information."

This catches my attention somewhat, but I am more weary than interested. Because I'm spent, and I simply cannot deal with any more of Mary's secrets.

"And what would that be?" Sherlock asks sharply.

"In light of recent events, I would like to keep the two of you at a distance from this, at least for the time being. So, without revealing too much, I can tell you that a considerable risk has been presented to national security. Very sensitive government has been leaked to some very dangerous people, one of whom is a known associate of Moriarty. Ms. Adler has had dealings with this individual in the past. Most recently, when she was on the run, after you saved her. She fended well enough for herself, but ultimately, she decided that it would be best to exchange her services for my protection."

"And Mary?"

A look of discontent passes over Mycroft's face.

"She has also agreed to help, being that she used to work for the crime syndicate that's currently producing the threat. She's offered to go back into the field, if necessary."

"She can't do that. She's pregnant!" I burst out, shocked.

Mycroft raises a very pointed eyebrow at me and then looks at me critically, a hint of pity in his eyes. Sherlock looks at me and then back at his brother.

"No," he says very faintly. "No," he repeats.

And I understand. Very slowly, the realization starts breaking through. I feel numb.

"Oh."

At that one, dead syllable, that hollow, empty noise, both brothers turn to look at me. I feel remarkably calm, considering. I get to my feet and start walking for the door, despite not being able to feel the contact of my steps. Behind the ringing in my ears, I can hear Sherlock saying my name very faintly.

"Just out of curiosity," I say, turning around, "was she ever really pregnant?" My voice doesn't sound like my voice. It's too mannered, too tightly controlled.

"Of course she was, John," Mycroft replies, trying to soften his tone. "_I'm _not even sure when she lost it."

I have no idea why he thinks that would be a comfort to me, but he's giving me a pained grimace that I imagine is his offer of condolence. Sherlock is blinking at me with rapidity, looking just as shell-shocked as I feel. My bones ache to cave toward him, but I push the impulse away. I calmly walk out the door instead.

Once I'm outside the building, I feel myself start to crumple. I want to start walking and never stop, but I can't make my feet move past the curb. Because Sherlock is still somewhere up there in Mycroft's office, and I feel anchored to him. It's the only certainty I have.

My insides feel like they're melting. She's defeating me. Slowly but surely, she's beating me down. I want to hate her, but I can't. Because the worst part of all of this is that I still love her. Not in the same way, but I still do. Maybe it's that I love the memory of her, love what she used to represent to me.

And I know she loves me. But it's selfish love. Hurtful love. She cuts deep.

And she _takes._

She takes away everything I love.

I can feel the pressure building at my temples and behind my eyes, and I can feel my breathing trying to rip out my lungs. I allow myself a few minutes to fall apart, to give over to the awful, messy uproar inside of me. It feels like it's going to kill me, and for a minute, I almost hope that it does.

But I can compartmentalize. And I can repress. So that's what I do.

By the time Sherlock joins me outside, I have pulled it together, reeled it all in. It sits, tightly compacted, inside of my chest. And when he looks at me, I'm not sure if it's his pain or mine I'm feeling.

His hand is flat against his chest, and I reach halfheartedly for it before stopping the motion, just as we both know I'll do.

"Mycroft thought it would be best if we avoided Baker Street for now. There are too many eyes on us. He's having a car brought around for us. Someone should drop off our things later."

It's unusual for Sherlock to cave to Mycroft like this, but he looks cagey, and it's enough to make me worried. I wonder what passed between him and his brother after I'd left. A car pulls up beside us, and he opens the door for me before climbing in behind me.

As we pull away, we both watch each other warily out of the sides of our eyes and pretend not to notice how close together we're sitting.

* * *

><p>The car pulls up in front of a massive, imposing manor on a sprawling estate. There is a grey pall falling over everything, over the rolling hills and up the long walk to the imposing front door. The house is old and dignified looking and obviously very well maintained. Sherlock's looking at it with a very faint frown of disgust, mixed with something else that almost looks like nostalgia.<p>

"Sherlock…" I start cautiously. He turns to look at me blankly, face scrubbed clean of any emotions. "Where are we?"

"The ancestral home," he replies as he climbs out of the car, arm encompassing it in a grand, sweeping gesture.

"You…grew up…here?" It takes me a minute to absorb that fact. After visiting Sherlock's parents' house over Christmas, I had imagined Sherlock's childhood there. I had inserted him into those rooms, pictured him growing up there, seen him running through those hallways. I'd liked those fabricated memories. They'd made me feel closer to him, like I'd watched him grow up. And I felt like I understood him better. But I can't picture him in this huge, oppressor of a house.

He shrugs. "Until I was fifteen. Mycroft lives here now. Alone." His voice is tight, and so are his eyes. I can hear the greater strain of something being left unsaid. He's still frowning at the house. I wonder what happened here.

A glimpse into Sherlock's past is a rare thing, and I feel possessive of it. Moriarty had used it against him once before, and Irene had hinted that he was going to try to do it again. I don't want anyone else to see it, don't want anyone else to have access to him like that. The more other people see of him, the less they seem to understand. I hate it.

We start up the walk, and I see him shove his hands in his pockets. He hunches his shoulders forward slightly, the bend of his body increasing the closer we get to the front door. It almost looks like he's being crushed by the weight of the memories here. I feel a similar heaviness in me, but I let it dissipate. It hurts too much to look this is the face,—what Mary did—so I just ignore it for now. I focus on Sherlock's pain instead.

And I can feel it, coming through sharply, just as I can always feel him now. Stoic as he is, I've gotten good at reading his expressions. And he looks practically tortured. It rends my ribs apart. The urge is there again, the urge to throw myself in front of him, to shield him. We're standing at the door, but he doesn't seem able to bring himself to open it.

I lift a hand and drop it heavily on his shoulder, letting it linger before dragging it down his arm. I feel like our edges are tingling, blurring together. A ripple passes through him, and then he shakes it off and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, and together, we cross the threshold.

We walk across the sprawling, open entryway, our footsteps echoing over the marble floors. He strolls ahead of me, hands in his pockets. He walks as though guided by an external force, lost in the haze of memories. I cautiously fall into step behind him.

I follow him up the grand staircase. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and drags it along the rail. My hand trails behind in its wake. Silently, he leads me through the rooms. It's the strangest tour I've ever experienced. It's like he wants me to see everything, but he doesn't want to explain. Almost as though talking will disturb something here, kick up the dust and dislodge sleeping memories.

The house is silent and hollow. The rooms are austere and unlived in but conspicuously absent of dust. It makes me uneasy because this is the sort of place where you can feel the absences. There's a lacking here and a looming expectation. Like someone used to live here and then just suddenly vanished. Like the inhabitant lived an abbreviated existence here, and the house is just waiting for him to come back. There are no personal effects, no family pictures. Just heavy, antique furniture. Family heirlooms. Things that Sherlock owns that don't belong to him.

He doesn't fit here. He moves through the thick air carefully, like he's testing the floorboards, seeing if they're going to fall through. I wonder if this all feels as foreign to him as it does to me. He doesn't navigate the rooms with possessiveness or familiarity. We amble along, aimless in our wander, but I still feel like we're looking for something.

I lose myself in his footsteps and let the numbness in. It's so much easier to feel nothing than to feel the hurt and betrayal that are pushing up against me, begging to be let through. But as long as I'm here with Sherlock, I feel like I can hold them back, and I feel a small flicker of hope that they won't defeat me. And so we bump along, two little boats lost on a rolling sea.

We've been drifting from room to room for about half an hour when something finally makes him stop. It's a small room in the east wing of the house, tucked in the corner at the end of a hallway. He stares at it so avidly that even I feel the sacredness of it.

The door creaks as it opens with the sound of hinges that haven't been used in a very long time. A thick coat of dust covers everything in here, and it's a jarring departure from the rest of the immaculate house. Sherlock's face is very still as we step further into the room. My hand finds its way to his elbow and rests there reassuringly. Whether it's there for his benefit or mine, I'm not entirely sure.

Because the room is unnerving in a disconcertingly muted kind of way. There is no furniture, save for the shelves lining the walls on either side of us. The wall across from us is covered in framed portraits. They look older and presumably bear the images of older Holmeses, long passed. The shelves, too, have pictures, but they look like they've been taken in the more recent past.

Sherlock watches as I pick up a nearby frame to study the picture inside. A young, curly-haired boy grins out at me, gums bared and teeth missing. I find myself smiling back at him, my heart warming. I had no idea that Sherlock was capable of a look of such unrestrained joy. The youthfulness and the innocence of the image are bittersweet; they're an alternately painful and nice reminder that he hadn't always been the sullen, brooding man I'd moved in with all those years ago.

I hold it up to show it to him, and a ghost of a smile passes over his lips. His eyes are still tight, though, and it makes me tense up. He's watching me nervously, afraid of how I'm going to interpret this: his past. Doesn't he know that I am way past the point where I'd ever be able to judge him?

I give his elbow a light squeeze and then drop it, realizing I'd allowed the touch to linger much longer than I should have. I put the picture back, and my eyes alight on another. It's Sherlock, again, a little older,—maybe eight or nine—and he's hugging a shaggy, red dog.

"Redbeard," he says, startling me after being silent for so long.

"What?"

"Redbeard," he repeats, pointing at the picture. "My dog."

"I didn't even know you had a dog."

"It was a long time ago," he says, sadly, almost, tinges of the memory creeping back into his voice. He turns inscrutable eyes onto me. "He was family. And a very dear friend. My only one, in fact."

He says it evenly, without emotion, but the statement still comes as a blow to me. Because I can't imagine that Sherlock had an easy childhood. I hadn't considered it before, but now that I think about it, I realize that no one would have wanted to be friends with the little boy whose stare was a little too direct, whose questions were a little too daring, whose idea of fun was a little too dreadful.

And suddenly, I want to hug little Sherlock, and I kind of want to hug fully-grown Sherlock, too. I clear my throat.

"What happened?"

"My parents told me that he went to live on a farm. And I believed that until Mycroft helped me reach the correct conclusion." I read right through the subtlety of what he's saying, and the anger rises swiftly within me, catching me off guard. He nods ever so slightly. "I didn't take it well," he continues quietly, leaving me to my inferences. I look at the grinning boy with his arms wrapped around his dog. I can't even fathom how hard losing him must have been.

He's watching me again, and I let all of the layers of that look pass through me.

"Mycroft stayed outside my room that entire night. He thought I didn't know, but I heard him,—he was not exactly light on his feet—and I saw his (sizable) shadow beneath my door."

And I can see it; I can _feel_ it: Sherlock crying over his loss, and Mycroft, just out of reach, on the other side of the door.

"He told me that you can't save everything you love."

That sentiment sinks heavily to the pit of my stomach. We both know the truth of that.

Sherlock moves away and picks up another picture. He stares at it for a long time, a defeated slope to his shoulders. After a moment, he hands it to me.

"My brother," he says, quietly. "The other one."

Three faces are staring up at me. Sherlock's a teenager in this one, but still easily recognizable. He's got the same dark curls, the same piercing eyes, the same familiar, stubborn expression. Mycroft next to him is younger, fatter, but still the same for the most part. The third face is a mystery to me, but I know exactly who he is. _The other one._ The third Holmes brother. The one I never knew existed.

He's obviously the oldest, and he looks a lot like Sherlock does now, but his features aren't as sharp or as defined. He's got dark, cropped hair, and light blue eyes that lack the complexity of Sherlock's hues. He has the same high cheekbones, hidden under thicker skin. He looks grim and serious as he stares directly out of the picture frame, straight through the glass.

Sherlock takes the picture from me. There are a million questions flying through my head, but I hold them in check, unsure of how much Sherlock is willing to divulge. He blinks at me, his mouth pulled thin. After a moment, he sighs.

"Sherrinford was brilliant. Smarter than anyone I knew. Smarter than Mycroft, even. He was the oldest of the three of us, too. He and Mycroft didn't get on; I think they were too similar. I barely knew him. He wasn't around a lot."

He won't look at me, and his hands are shaking almost imperceptibly. I lift the picture out of his grasp and put it back on the shelf. He still doesn't look at me, but after a pause, he continues on with his stilted, abbreviated speech.

"He did something with the government, too. Top secret missions. Mostly, dealings in Eastern Europe. Mycroft worked closely with him. Sherrinford did the field work, and Mycroft was intelligence. They never should have been allowed to work together," he says darkly, looking up at me with narrowed eyes.

I swallow hard. "What happened?"

"Sentiment."

The dust floating in the air suddenly seems much too thick. It's heavy in my windpipe and thick as it coats the inside of my lungs. And I'm not sure who takes the first step, but Sherlock and I are suddenly much closer together than we were only seconds earlier.

"Sherrinford's wife was an agent, too, you see. And Mycroft sent her on a mission from which she didn't return. He didn't know,—couldn't have known—but Sherrinford blamed him all the same. And he couldn't handle the loss. Grief drove him mad, John. Pushed him over the edge.

"He went after the men that killed her. He was gone for months. And he never returned.

"Mycroft disavowed him, erased every proof of his existence. Well, almost." He frowns ever so slightly. "You know the ring Mycroft always wears?"

I nod half-certainly. Vaguely, I can sort of recollect the gold band that Mycroft always has on.

"It's Sherrinford's wedding ring. He sent it to Mycroft just before…" he trails off into an awkward cough. "And Mycroft has worn it every day since."

I feel the sadness of it, absorb it, let it eke into my bloodstream. He blinks and blinks at me.

"It was very hard to live here after that, as you can imagine. My parents just wanted to get away from it all. So, they moved us. And we tried to forget.

"Family is…complicated. They hold you hostage in a way other people cannot. Sometimes, it's a good thing, and sometimes, it's a bad thing. Now, you don't have a lot of choice in the family you're born with, but the family that you choose, well, they're quite telling, aren't they? Because it takes a lot of faith to let someone carve you open so that they can climb inside. Because that's what they do. And you have to trust that they won't mess you up once they're in there."

And I feel every meaning of the words he's saying. I let them push under my skin, and I let them rip me open and mend me back together. And I know he's doing this, revealing so much of himself, for me. Trying to distract me from my pain with his. Trying to comfort me in the only way he knows how.

I can feel the fear gathering between us, taste it at the corners of my mouth, but I stave it off because there's something else, something stronger that wants to take over. And his hand's there, again, pressed up against his heart, and I can feel the ache of it now, and it pulls me in, drags me forward.

Before I know it, I'm falling against him, my head on his shoulder. I let all of my pain bleed into him until the fear ebbs away, and there's just the two of us, breathing in this forgotten corner, this repressed memory. I know that when it's over, we'll leave this moment behind with the rest of the ghosts, but just for now, I linger in it.

My hand finds his and drags it down, drags it away from his chest. Our fingers tangle at our sides for a fraught, confusing second before I let go.

Sherlock's voice comes softly from above me, barely audible.

"I don't want to lose any more family, John."

My stomach gives a lurch.

_Me either, Sherlock. I can't carry any more loss. I can't bear it. _

_Because you are my family._

_I trust you, Sherlock. _

_I depend upon you._

_I need you._

_I will always follow you. _

_I try so desperately not to lose you, but even when I do, I always find you again. _

_And I am so, so scared of you._

Something Mycroft said earlier comes back to me:

_"Different words for the same thing."_

* * *

><p><strong>Don't hate me?<strong>

**This was such a hard chapter to write...**

**Chapter title inspiration: Dashboard Confessional, "The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most"**

**xxx**

**PS Replying to comments on here is weird, and I don't fully understand/like it. If you want to interact with me, I'm on Archive of Our Own, and I'm able to reply to comments! Also, it's easier to edit on there, so the most correct version of this story is over there as well.**


	20. Chapter 20

_"Yeah. 'Course you are. 'Course. You're my best friend."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>20. It's Just that at Night, I've Got Nowhere to Hide<span>

I wake up the next morning without memory of falling asleep. I had lain awake for hours, staring at a strange ceiling in a strange room, begging for the emptiness above me to stretch out and pour into me. But thoughts always scream loudest when you try to smother them, and the pain kept poking through and holding sleep out of reach. Sleep came eventually, though, but it only left me feeling more worn down, wrung out, and weary than before.

I push out of bed, numbness settling uncomfortably in the set of my bones. Leaving the guest room into which Sherlock had deposited me the night before, I trail through the halls, and, after getting lost for a while, find my way to the dining room. And I knew that he would probably be there, but it still catches me off guard to see Sherlock's brother, sitting there calmly, drinking coffee and reading the paper. The bizarreness of it all hangs in the air because if there were elements of my life that were surreal before, they are nothing compared to what it's like to live under the same roof as Mycroft Holmes.

Some weirdly comical part of me had been half-wanting to see him in his pajamas and bunny slippers, but he's as immaculate and unruffled as ever in his three-piece-suit. I feel self-consciously underdressed in my t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but I push the feeling away. Mycroft had long ago lost the ability to make me feel inferior, if he'd ever even had the power at all.

He looks up when I walk in the room and gestures for me to join him. I sit a chair away and accept the cup of coffee he's offering me. A vague part of my brain that's not currently grappling with the strangeness of this whole situation wonders why he doesn't have servants. But I suppose privacy is one of those things that Mycroft values above everything else.

He gives me one of his trademark, pinched smiles and sets the newspaper down.

"And how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Yeah. Good." Just gutted and rubbed raw.

His disbelieving look grates on me, but he doesn't push me. He picks up his coffee mug and takes a long drink. The gold ring glints obscenely, and I wonder how I'd never really noticed it before. I'm suddenly pressingly aware of my own ring and the stranglehold it has on my finger. I wonder if Mycroft can feel the weight of his as acutely as I can feel the weight of mine.

His eyes are upon me, his analysis much less welcome than that from his brother.

"How did you sleep?"

I don't answer. He knows the answer to that. If I had slept well, I wouldn't be up this early, and the circles under my eyes wouldn't be so pronounced. He gives a conspiratorial sigh of sorts and laces his fingers together.

"It will get easier," he says over the tops of his hands.

I laugh disbelievingly.

"That hardly seems true, what with you dragging us into all of this mess with Mary and Moriarty and Ir—her." I can't help the grimace that comes at the end of that sentence. It's an involuntary reaction—one into which I'm sure Mycroft reads volumes.

Sure enough, I meet his critical gaze that is searching everything in my expression.

"You don't like Ms. Adler."

"I don't like her around Sherlock," I say bluntly. "She brings out a weakness in him, as you already know. That should concern you." My tone falls decidedly on the accusatory side, but Mycroft just fixes me with a smug, satisfied look.

"If his weaknesses were my biggest concern, there are far more dangerous persons that I wouldn't let near him."

Fear threatens to break through the neutrality on my face, so I mask it with anger, instead. Mycroft picks up the his newspaper again, and the pages seem to rustle self-righteously. I assume that the conversation is over, so I stare moodily into my coffee and try to drown my thoughts in it.

"You don't have to worry about her, you know," Mycroft says from behind his paper, startling me. He folds the top down so he can peer over it at me. "It was a different kind of sentiment that he harbored for her."

Different from what? I want to ask.

"How do you mean?" I say, instead.

"I believe that he tapped into some very deeply buried empathy when it came to her. He identified with her."

"How?" I scoff.

"Think about it, John. She is clever, analytical, and manipulative. She is also a social outcast with no one to trust and no one who understands her. You can see how this invites comparison. Whether he wants to admit it or not, Sherlock saw bits of himself in her, and I think that encouraged a bit of a crush."

My insides twist painfully when he says that, and I ignore the implications of it.

"He didn't need someone just like him, though," Mycroft continues. "So the crush necessarily faded quickly enough, but he still felt protective of her, wanted to help her. Part of him didn't want to see her lose. Especially to me. But I don't need to explain that to you; do I?"

It takes a lot of effort not to be angry with him, but most of my irritation is drowned out by the most confusing sense of relief I feel at his words.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft checks his watch and stands.

"As I said, John," he raps his knuckles on the table, "you have no reason to worry about her."

He leaves the room before I respond, and I lapse into a deep, thoughtful silence. Sherlock is still asleep somewhere upstairs, and parts of me feel like they're pulling towards him. Imaginary lines are snaking out and connecting to him. I want to dissever them and shorten them all at once. And it's just because I almost lost him again. It's just because I'm worried about him, I tell myself. There's no other reason. He's my dearest friend. And that's it.

My phone bleats, and I fish it out of the pocket of my dressing gown. It's Mary. And there it is. That thing I've been avoiding thinking about. The thing that drops like an anchor and sinks into the pit of my stomach.

And I feel as though I'm staring into a void, sinking into it, losing sight of everything else. It consumes me inescapably, and I wonder how it's possible that I feel so empty and so heavy all at the same time. Weariness drags in my veins, and my lungs seem to be struggling with the simple task of drawing in and expelling air.

That's what Mary does. She makes easy things hard.

I sit there for an immeasurable amount of time. My coffee cup goes cold in my hands, and the sun moves its way up the sky, its forcibly bright light streaming in through the windows. Finally, I type a response. And I wait. And I keep sitting there. My body feels molded to the chair.

Sherlock stumbles into the room, sleep tousled and groggy. The weight in my ribcage lifts away, and I inhale suddenly, the breath coming as a surprise. He meets my gaze momentarily before shifting his eyes away. With a wince, he digs his knuckles into his temples and kneads at the pressure presumably building there.

"You alright?"

He doesn't answer me. He doesn't even look at me.

"Sherlock…"

He gives a quick sideways glance in my direction.

"Are you alright?" I repeat.

He tangles agitated fingers through his hair and ruffles his curls. With a frustration-laden frown, he looks around the room.

"Isn't there any tea?" he mutters irrelevantly.

I call his name again, faintly, listlessly.

"There's always tea when I wake up," he continues peevishly. He still won't look at me.

"I'll get you tea," I mutter. He doesn't acknowledge that he heard me.

I heft to my feet and head for the door. As I pass him, I reach out to him, my hand a breath away from passing across his back. He stiffens, like he can feel the suggestion of the whisper of the touch. I draw away. I perceive distance growing between us, like he's tunneling away from me. And it hurts me. His hand drops to his chest, his fingers curling against his shirtfront.

I find my way to the kitchen, nerves jumping. I feel pressure building in me, same as the water as I wait for it to boil. The steaming of the kettle sends a sharp pain through the front of my skull. I don't know how to fix this.

When I walk back into the dining room, Sherlock is still there. He's standing at the window, staring out onto the vast grounds. Cautiously, I approach him, fear leaving my mouth dry and dusty. I feel like I'm edging around a landmine, groping in the darkness for a lifeline.

I hold the cup out to him, and he takes it after a delayed moment. Our fingers brush, and we both start, causing the hot tea to slosh over the top. I hardly notice the scalding liquid dripping over my fingers. A different sort of pain is shooting out to the nerve endings of my fingertips.

Slowly, I pull my hands away. Without thanking me, he takes a sip.

"You're welcome," I say pointedly. I realize that I'm angry with him again. Because just when I need him the most, he's pulling away.

**I'm **not alright, Sherlock, I want to shout at him. I need you to help me. I need you to care.

But I stay silent. And he just drinks his tea and keeps looking out that damn window.

"Mary texted me," I say tightly, looking to elicit a reaction.

"Hm."

"I'm going to meet her for lunch later today."

"Good, good," he murmurs.

"Actually, it's not," I shoot back, heat rising in my chest and in my voice. "It's not good. Not at all. Not a bit!"

I'm hurting over here, Sherlock. Look at me. God. Please, look at me. I don't know why I need this, don't know why I feel so cut open, don't know why I'm clinging so tightly to him. But I need him.

With agonizing slowness, he turns to face me with dead, blank eyes. The detachment winds me. And I feel the danger again, the looming threat. He's pushing me away again and wedging the estrangement between us. Stop it. Stop this.

I wonder if he's going to file me away, compress me into nothing. He's going to shove me into some dusty old corner of his mind palace, just like Mycroft hoarded all of those haunting memories in that forgotten room in his house. Because that's how they protect themselves. They turn off emotions, never letting them out, never letting them breathe.

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" I find myself saying. "Why are you like this?"

He blinks, wounded. It hurts me that I've hurt him, which makes me angry because he's hurting me and doesn't seem the least bit upset about it. And it makes me want to hurt him back, but I know it will only multiply my pain. And it drags me under and it torments me because this churning, cyclical pain seems inescapable.

"Why are you like this?" I repeat quietly.

He takes in a deep breath.

"Personality is a construct of the falsehoods we want to believe about ourselves. The image that people sell to the world is not who they actually are, but rather, who they want to be. No one wants to be truly understood for who they are. They want to be understood for who they want to be, who deep down, they trick themselves into believing they are."

"Stop," I say. "That's not what I meant. Stop." But he steamrolls over me.

"Perception is projection. What you want to believe, what you want to feel, you see in other people. So what you're finding in me is what you expect to find because it's the only thing you're looking for."

"Sherlock, stop."

If he doesn't realize how transparent of a deflection this is, then he's not nearly as perceptive as he pretends to be. Because this is what he always does when he doesn't want to answer a direct question. He gives a lengthy, roundabout speech that's made up of a lot of words that don't really mean much at all. But I can hear what he's saying beneath it all. He's giving me all the answers, and I can't be mad at him anymore.

He wants to pretend like he has no emotions because he's so afraid of losing control. He's so afraid of becoming his brother, so afraid of tipping over into madness, of losing his mind over the things he cares about. And he thinks that I can't see that. He thinks that I see him in the same way that the rest of the world does: like he's careless and heartless.

But he's wrong. And he's lying to himself and to me. Because he does want to be understood for who he truly is and not for who he pretends to be. His heart scares him in the way that it reaches for love, in the way that it is so desperate for it. And he'll never ask for it. He'll lock himself up in his iron fortress of aloneness before he ever does.

I reach a hand out and capture his elbow, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Sherlock, you're wrong. I can see the depth of you." I pause. "I can feel it, too." For the first time, he stares deep into my eyes, and he doesn't look away.

* * *

><p>Mary is already waiting for me when I get to the restaurant. She is sitting at the table, looking at the menu without reading it. I try to think back to the first time I saw her and how I felt, but I can't reawaken any of those feelings, any of the fondness. All there is now is sharp-edged love, and wistfully tinted sadness.<p>

I sit across from her, and I feel distinctly as though I'm looking at a stranger. She gives me a limp smile that I don't return. I feel a hole opening in the floor between us, and I imagine us throwing into it all the things we're going to lose.

I have a million things to say and no way to say them. After all the words that spun around in my head last night, I find that I can't say them. Mary doesn't speak, either. We place our orders and stare blankly at the table.

"I'm sorry," she finally says, softly.

"When did you lose her? How long ago?"

"About a month."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

When she looks at me, I feel like my heart is pulling into thousands of little pieces. Because it is abjection and despondency and loss: everything inside of me, reflected back.

"I was on the verge of losing you, and I had already lost her, and I couldn't, I couldn't let that happen."

That rips me apart. Because how desperate must she have felt to have gone to such lengths, to have clung to me so tightly? And I want to hate her, but I can't. Because I understand. I know what it's like when it feels like everything is slipping away. Loss is a pit, and she had been trying so hard to claw her way out.

"I am sorry. So sorry. For everything."

And I know she is. But it's the wrong kind of sorry. Because if things had worked out for her, she wouldn't be apologizing. We push our food around on our plates, neither of us feeling very hungry. I look up at her again. A small, pleading frown in is on her face.

"I'm going to fix this. I'm going to fix everything, John."

I stare sadly at her through the tatters of our relationship. I have never seen anything more broken than what lies between the two of us. There's defiance in her eyes, and I know that she will never stop fighting for this. For us. And I know that she can see that I'm done, but it only makes her want to fight harder. But some things can't be undone, and some things can't be forced.

"Mycroft is sending me away for a while," she says in a falsely bright voice. "But when I get back, maybe we can start over?" I try to ignore the begging in her voice. Palm facing up, she slides her hand toward me.

"Fine. Yeah. Sure." I clench my hand into a fist and slide it away from her.

She nods like she believes me, but I can see the crumple in her features. We finish our meal in silence, and I decide that it's fitting to end our relationship the way we began it: with a lie.

* * *

><p>I get back late. I don't know where I've been. I just lost myself in the wandering. A heavy, uneasy peace is still settling within me. A massive burden has been lifted away from me, only to be replaced by a million other, smaller ones. I let them eat away at my insides.<p>

There is no sign of Mycroft, but I don't really want to talk to him, anyway. I have questions for him, so many questions, but they can wait. Because I don't really want to deal with the Moriarty business right now. I just want to find Sherlock. I don't entertain ideas of why that is, but I look for him nonetheless.

He is nowhere to be found. Which is fitting. Lately, it seems that he's never where I need him to be.

I fall into bed, ready to give up on everything and leave the day behind. Sometimes, it feels as though there's too much being asked of me, too much being taken from me. And I just want someone to put it back. Put it all back. Mary had done that once, but she isn't who I need right now. And in a way, she was never really who I needed.

She had filled the void when I was waiting for him to come back. When I hadn't even realized I was waiting for him. Sometimes, it still feels like I'm waiting. Sometimes, I think he'll never come back. Or maybe, it's just that he'll never come close enough.

I fall into a black, dreamless sleep, my mind circling the absences.

* * *

><p>I wake a few hours later without knowing why. There's a dim awareness in the back of my mind, but my thoughts are moving too sluggishly to register it. I feel a shift, something different. A new presence.<p>

And then, I realize. I see it. There's blood pounding in my ears and a new levity in my chest as I stare at it.

There's a shadow under my door.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh lord, chapter 20. That just sort of snuck up on me...Also, how the heck did this already reach over 60,000 words?<strong>

**Ah well, thanks you everyone who's been reading! Big, squishy hugs to y'all!**

**Chapter title inspiration: Jack's Mannequin, "Hammers & Strings (A Lullaby)"**

**xxx**


	21. Chapter 21

_"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>21. I'm Not Half the Man that I Should Be<span>

As I'd listened to John make the leaden trek up the stairs to the guest room, the sound of his every step seemed to pass through me. I felt the heaviness of his every footfall, the slow crumple of defeat reverberating through me. The throes of agony and yearning.

This awareness of him is persistent and ever-present now, and it is sharp and cutting and rips a hole through me. Because if John can feel the _depth_ of me, well then, I can feel the _weight_ of him. It's going to drag me down. But it doesn't feel like drowning. It feels like _falling_.

One would think that I know everything there is to know about falling. And theoretically, I do know quite a bit. I know that in perfect, controlled circumstances, the only force acting on a falling object would be gravity. There would be no friction, no air resistance, no complications. Just a plunge and the inescapable downward drag of gravitational forces.

In my fall, there had been the expected complications. Those had been predicted and accounted for and effectively counteracted. It's why I'm still alive. We'd beat gravity, beat the permanent destination Moriarty had so artfully carved out for me. But as I'd stood on that ledge, it occurred to me that there were other factors that I'd failed to take into account. Other forms of resistance that were inside of me that flailed and rejected my trajectory. And I'd been on the phone with the main source of them.

Velocity can be predicted. Force can be measured. Mass can be calculated. Human feeling cannot. It has a thrust and a power all its own, and it seems able to accelerate infinitely. I'd underestimated it and had been thrown off balance by the sudden barrage of it as my toes had hung off the edge of that building and I prepared to throw everything away—for the sake of one man.

And when I jumped, I'd felt the inexorable drop, the pull that I couldn't fight, but for the maddest, most unbridled second, I'd wanted desperately to fly.

Free fall is a terrifying thing. There is no control; just a boundless, limitless plunge. I will never be able to forget the sensation of it: the way my fingertips had gone numb, the way my stomach had flown up into my throat. The way the wind had stung and my eyes had watered. And even though I was trapped inside my body, that cumbersome weight that was being dragged down, down, down, I still felt as though I'd left it somewhere far behind. A void had opened up above and below and within me, and I'd felt alternately stretched and compressed and inwardly consumed, my atoms scattering and then compacting tightly back together.

I feel much the same way, now, as I climb the stairs, the strangest fluttering rippling over my body. I tilt towards his door, my feet taking the decision away from my brain. And as I hover before that narrow expanse of wood that seems to be growing broader and more intimidating with each passing second, it occurs to me that I perhaps don't know as much about falling as I thought I did.

It would seem that a wind current has caught me and ripped me in a completely different direction than was originally anticipated. And oh, god, that terrifies me.

I slide down against his door, my back resting against the firmness of it. I try to ground myself, but I don't feel entirely present. Parts of me are floating away, and parts of me are plummeting, and I can't seem to get a firm hold on any of them. Because I've finally been tipped over the edge.

I'm falling again, and it's inescapable. And I'm not entirely sure where my point of impact is going to be.

I tip my head back and rest it against the cool wood. Closing my eyes, I try to ignore the breathlessness, the suffocating fear.

I hear the creak of mattress springs and freeze, my heart thudding painfully. I try to control the ricochet of nerves that ignite beneath my skin. With bated breath, I listen. And then, there are the unmistakable, muffled sounds of bare feet over carpet. He's there, just beyond the door. I can hear him. I can _feel_ him. There's a hollow noise of another body colliding with the door, sliding down its length. And now, we're back to back, separated by only a thin strip of wood that has somehow multiplied in mass in the last few minutes.

I wonder if he can feel the throb of my heart through the door. I swear I can hear his raspy, uneven breathing. And this is dangerous. I can feel it. The adrenaline courses through me, the awareness of the peril cropping up around me and pricking at my senses.

The distance between us seems to shudder with the threat of terminality, like a single breath could rend us apart for good.

And I'm not sure if I can take the rips and tears.

Parts of me are distantly bleeding. Fissures run through my bones. My nerves are splayed, their loose ends sparking. I feel as though I've been passed through a shredder, several times over. Air whistles through all the gaps in the flayed tatters of my skin. I need something to force the pieces back together, need something to fill the holes.

_Help me, John. Help me._

He shifts slightly against the door, and everything inside of me aches. I press my hands to my chest, and I wish that they could sink through flesh so I can grab my heart and hold it together. Because with every throb, it feels like all the pieces are fracturing, scattering through my bloodstream. Every breath threatens a puncture, and I'm going to lose it all. I'm going to bleed out.

_I'm dying, John. I'm dying._

The human body is only made up of flesh and blood, muscles and tissue, tendons and bones. But lately, it seems infinitely more than that. Fibers and filaments are flying out from the tips of my fingers, my skin is unravelling. I need something to fill me up, fill the voids.

My hands slide up the sides of my head. _Why is this happening? John?_ None of this is supposed to be happening. Things are flying outside of my mind's control, and I'm falling, falling, falling. I'm above this. I'm supposed to be above this. I'm brilliant. _I'm supposed to brilliant, John._

And he's there, just beyond the door, but I can't reach him. And suddenly, there's an urgent, desperate need within me. A need to reach through and grab hold, a need for the filaments to tangle with something and weave together. Stitch me back together. Fix the seams.

I push to my feet, fingers dragging along the length of the door. All of these achings and longings have taken up residence inside of me. And they terrify me, horrify me. I hurl them away from me. My fingers falter for the handle. And in this moment, I realize that there is everything and nothing between us. And I'm not sure which I'm more afraid to face.

I shove away. My feet can't seem to move fast enough down the hallway. Because all I feel is the fear. Always the fear. And I can't stand it. Can't stand to _feel _all these things. So I choose nothing.

And who knew that _nothing_ could hurt this much? I walk faster, needing to leave all feeling behind. Give me numbness. Give me nothing. I practically run down the run down the stairs, needing to escape it all. Escape my skin. Escape my traitorous body that wants all the things that it wants.

I burst out the front door, into the velvet night. My hands fumble across the front of my jacket, patting, searching. The pain and the panic clatter and collide through my veins, and with trembling fingers, I shake out a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I try and try and try and try to light it, but the flame won't take.

"Sherlock."

I hadn't realized he'd followed me, and the sound of his voice catches me off guard. The pleading quality to it makes me wince, and in it, I hear all the things he's asking me for. All the things I can't give him. I turn to him. His face is partially visible in the yellow light that's spilling out from the windows and the wide-open front door.

Part of me wants to walk away from him, but his pain calls to mine, and we hurtle towards one another. Bedraggled and dazed, he stumbles toward me. Without thinking about it, I reach an arm out to him. He stops walking when he reaches my fingertips. My arm again drops to my side.

I look him full in the face and see for the first time just how shattered he is. Just how broken apart. My heart gives a lurch. And I want to tell him that I feel it, too. _John, every crack in you is mirrored in me_. Bloodshot eyes devour one another. And then, he is collapsed against me. His body bends against mine.

The tide of our agony drags us down, and we cling to each other through it. His hand trails down my arm, a barely-there touch, filaments dragging. My fingers arch up to lace with his. And I start to think that maybe this will be okay. But then, his fingertips graze over mine and falter when they find the tiny, cylindrical roll. With breathtaking speed, he rips it from my grasp and holds it up to my face with shaking fingers.

And all of his grief transforms into anger.

He snaps it in half and drops it to the ground between us. He lunges at me, but I don't even flinch. His hands are in my pockets, searching. He yanks it out when he finds it, and thrusts it in front of me. The small, trembling box is right in front of my face. Teeth bared, he hurls it at me. His anger hits me with breathtaking force.

"What is this? A sign of worse things to come? Are you trying to kill yourself, for real this time? Hm? Are you going to leave me now, too?"

"John, I—"

"You what? You thought you would just fall apart…AGAIN? Because that's what you do, isn't it? You shatter and leave me to pick up the pieces."

He's trembling with rage, and I don't understand. My heart surges, aches, longs. _What do you want, John? What do you want from me?_

"John."

For once, I'm the one who's reaching for him. He flinches away.

"No. You make every damn thing about you, and you don't care what happens to everyone else. You selfish…you entitled…" he whirls around, fisting his hair, pacing away. Then he charges right up to me, crowding into my space. "Do you think you're the only one who gets to suffer? Who gets to hurt because of this? My life has gone to hell, and _you're_ the one who needs help."

And, suddenly, I see. I see all the things I've put him through in these last months. All the stress. And now, there's this thing with Mary. It's enough to break him. And I don't know how to pick up the pieces. I don't even know how to pick up my own pieces. My hand lifts pathetically toward him.

"John, no. I, you, _you_. You need help. I will help you."

He gives a cruel, derisive snort.

"How."

"I-I don't know. But we…We'll get through this together." _Just the two of us against the rest of the world._

I'm begging him, I realize. Pleading with him. His face is an uncompromising stone wall. Slowly, he's shaking his head, side to side.

"No. No, Sherlock. That would be no good. No good at all. Because, you see, when you lose a loved one, you're supposed to move forward. Get on with your life. I learned that from that time you died. Do you remember that? I had to move forward. Mary helped me do that. And now, she's gone. And I have to move forward again. That's what I do. I just go and go and go and go. That's what I have to do."

"So I'll go with you."

Something is swelling in my chest, and I'm reaching for something that I'm suddenly terrified that I won't be able to lose. _Help me. Help me, John. Don't let go. Don't let me go._ He's still shaking his head.

"No. It's no good. I have to move forward."

"So, let me help you."

"NO! You don't get it, do you? _You_ are not moving forward. _You_ are regression. Already, you are trying to leave me. You walked out on me, and now, this." He gestures to the cigarettes, pitifully strewn over the dirty pavement. "I have only ever been there for you, but you, you run at the first sign of trouble. I have to move forward, and you don't get it. You don't get it."

_But I do get it. I hear you now, John. It's okay. It's okay, John. It's okay. I understand. You have to move forward, and I just drag you backwards. I can't be what you need. I will let you down. There's a sickness in me. Heart failure of a completely different sort. I'm sorry, John._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm…_

I walk away, putting distance between us. It's a useless gesture because the distance was already there. I trail back to the house, my heart throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. He fades into the grey of the grim background. He's a watermark, a pale postscript at the end of this sad story. A washed-out memory, bleached from my mind.

I'll let him go. It's what he needs. I let him go before when it was what he needed, and I can do it again. I know what his life looks like when I'm in it. It's messy. I mess it up. I mess _him _up.

I pass through the door, and I hear the heaviness of his footsteps following me. And I feel him. I feel the weight of him. It presses down on me, drags me down. I'm falling. And I realize that it's not the falling that scares me. It's the landing.

He's still behind me, and I hear the smallest of breaths escape his lips.

"Sherlock…"

The anger is shockingly gone from his voice. The smallest lift of hope flutters through my chest and up to my throat. I push it down. I don't turn around.

"Sherlock," he tries again. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

His body heat is washing over me, and I realize that I've slowed down the pace of my steps. I feel the slow drag of his hand over my arm, our filaments crashing and tangling together. His hand comes to a firm grip around my wrist, and I let him pivot me around.

Our chests are heaving, and I can feel the rips and tears with every breath I'm pulling in. All of my edges are smarting and stinging. It's as if a part of myself has been torn away. John's hand is still on my wrist. Tremors and shakes are running up my arm, and I'm no longer certain who they're coming from. I pull away until our arms are drawn taut between us, and still, his fingers strain to hold on to me.

"Sherlock." His eyes are soft, and there's a pleading note in his voice. "Come here."

My feet are rooted to the floor.

"Please," he whispers. "You're always trying to leave. Stop it, Sherlock. I can't bear it anymore. Stop trying to leave."

I stumble towards him. For the first time in a long time, my mind is perilously blank. I blink and blink and blink at him, begging for answers. We drift closer, and I'm falling again. His fingers flutter against my skin, and my heart gives a lurch. _Don't let go, John_.

"Talk to me," he says plaintively. I sag against the wall behind me. His other hand falters upwards before halting. The one around my wrist tightens infinitesimally. "What's going on with you?"

Rubbing my forehead, I wince inward, hunching my shoulders. The ache is back, nestled low in my stomach and shooting up through my ribs.

"What's going on with _us_?" he says in a smaller voice, one that I'm not sure I was supposed to hear. He looks surprised by his question, and it lands a blow against me, somewhere below my sternum. And parts of me are falling, falling away.

Nerves are building, cascading, within me, and as I stare at him, it all comes pouring out. It comes in a panicked, single, pleading breath. It's the last reserve that has broken away. The pressure is immense, like water in a dam, and it starts slipping through the cracks. And before I can control it, it comes gushing out, all of the words, and all of the feelings, and all of the fear. Always the fear.

"I don't know. I don't know, John. We're breaking. We're breaking, John. Everything is breaking apart. Falling through the cracks. It's always the cracks. It's always the falling. And I can't fix it. I could never fix it. That's your job. I can't do it. I'm not enough. I was never enough. I failed you. I will always fail you. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to matter. I'm brilliant. I'm supposed to be brilliant." For the first time, I draw a horrible, shuddering breath. "Help me, John. Help me."

The entirety of my body is wracked with tremors and faults. And I need him to hold me together. His hand is a vice around my wrist. "Help me, John," I repeat. "Don't let go. Don't let me go." And it's so selfish. Already, I'm failing him: asking him to give when he's had everything taken from him. But that's what I do. I break things apart. I ruin people. That's what caring does: it takes an ordinary, everyday thing and turns it into something precious, turns it into something that can be shattered. And I'm going to be the one that drops it and loses all those tiny, little pieces. And I'm scared. _It's not the falling. It's the landing._

I'm still babbling, and I have no idea what I've said and what I haven't. I don't know anything, anymore. But that's nothing new. All I know is the hand that's on my wrist. It's the only thing anchoring me, the smallest thing that's holding me together.

John takes another step towards me. "Sh. Sherlock. Sh. You're alright. You're alright. We're alright."

His hand moves toward me, and this time, it doesn't stop. It lands on top of my hand, the one that's pressed to my heart. We stay there, not speaking, listening to the pounding until my pulse returns to a relatively normal rate.

Walls are shattering all around us, reality and dreams colliding. And there's no going back from this. We are plummeting, faster and faster, and the landing is coming. We both seem to realize it at the same time because we stiffen, bracing for impact.

My knees buckle under the weight of it. Under the weight of _him_. I slide to the ground, my back against the wall, and he follows me down, kneeling in front of me, his hands still on my wrist and at my chest.

I don't think we've ever been closer, in any sense of the word. I look away from his tight, concerned eyes down to my chest where his hand lays over mine. Our fingers are tangled together, and they're rising and falling ever so slightly with every beat of my heart. My gaze moves further down. At some point, the hand he'd had locked around my wrist had dropped down and found my hand. They're laced together, now, and I find peace in the weave of our skin, in the mesh of our filaments. As always, it comes with the fluttering of fear.

_What's happening to us?_

He runs a soothing thumb over the back of my hand, and I take a deep, steadying breath. The kind of breath that I only know how to take when I'm around him. He gives a small smile, one that's not entirely absent of reassurance.

"It's alright. We're going to be alright."

And the pain in my heart eases just a little bit. Because John can fix it. He always could. And it strikes me that I don't have to fall.

That lift is in my chest again. That one that wants to fly.

John's still talking, and all his reassuring warmth is flowing over me and filling me up. He's nodding now.

"We're going to fix it." He says it so surely, so forcibly, and I know that I'm not the only one he's trying to convince. "Yeah. We're going to fix all of this. We just need to get back to normal. Yeah. We need a case. We need to go home."

"We can't. We still don't know what Moriarty's up to. And this house is better protected."

"You were never worried about that before."

I make no response. The danger scares me. It's so much greater than it was before. Because there are pitfalls within me. And I've already fallen into some of them. I won't drag him down with me. I won't let him falter because of the weaknesses within me. I won't fail him again.

And I know he can see it, spelled out across my face. He gives the smallest dissatisfied shake of his head.

"Stop it. Stop whatever you're thinking."

"John—"

"No. You're an idiot. You know that?" He gives a small chuckle. "Your head talks you into some ridiculous things sometimes."

I smile at that and tilt towards him.

"I'm going to talk to Mycroft," he declares. "And I'm going to see about getting us home."

I look down at the fold of our hands, tucked together like they belong like that. Filaments braided. I swallow down the fear, and look back up at him.

"Honestly, John, do you always set yourself about tasks that have already been performed? Is that how you seek out your sense of accomplishment? I mean, I knew you were lazy, but this—"

"—Shut up."

But I'm smiling, and he is too. The smiles slip slightly as we acknowledge the deeper implication of what I've just said. And the terror's there, again. _Don't leave me alone on this ledge, John. Don't let me fall._

He gives my hand the smallest squeeze. And, just like that, hopes lift, my heart floats, and the filaments glide. Because that's what John Watson is for.

And for just the smallest second, everything soars.

* * *

><p><strong>Please forgive how long it took for me to update this. Life got crazy there for a while, but I'm back!<strong>

**Chapter title inspiration: Death Cab for Cutie, "A Diamond and a Tether"**

**xxx**


	22. Chapter 22

_"This is your heart. And you should never let it rule your head."_

Sherlock POV

* * *

><p><span>22. I'm Awake in You, and You're Asleep in Me<span>

It takes a week to convince Mycroft to let us leave. His ultimate acquiesce is due largely to John's championing and badgering and eventual bullying. John really is quite forceful when he wants to be, but for some reason, he often seems to lose that clout with me. He insists that it's due to an inherent stubbornness on my end, but I maintain that he has a certain lack of spirit when it comes to wrangling me in. In fact, he's always seemed content to let me do as I please, only intervening when he felt I'd crossed a line—a line that, if I'm honest, has rather generous give and rather blurry boundaries.

I live easily in those boundaries, I realize. He allows me to exist exactly as I am within them. Pure acceptance. It's almost enough to leave me breathless. It shucks out my insides, hollows me out, making room for the fear to settle in. But there are still small spaces there, little pockets of air. There's still room for something else.

Blood surges painfully to my heart at that thought, and I press firm, insistent hands against it. It's amazing that the ache is just as persistent, just as sharp as it's always been. There is a strain there that refuses to be dulled, refuses to be repressed.

"Still doing that, are we?" Mycroft doesn't look at me from behind his newspaper, flaunting the fact that he doesn't need to see my actions in order to know about them. It sends the smallest spark of annoyance through me, and I choose not to respond to him, sinking lower in my chair and turning back to the breakfast I'd previously been neglecting. I consider eating, knowing it will make John happy, but I can't seem to pry my hands away to pick up a spoon.

The newspaper rustles presumptuously, and, a few minutes later, he's lowering it to the table. Affixed on his face is that disassembling, overbearing smile that clenches John's jaw and sets his teeth on edge. In truth, I don't much care for it, either. I glare in response. Mycroft only seems to swell under the hostility, relishing any occasion to irritate me. It's our last morning with him, which has made him even more unpleasant and unbearable than he is usually.

His eyes drop to my chest, an obvious, knowing smirk angling upwards along his lips. I want to drop my hands away, but I won't give him the satisfaction. Darts of pain still are still shooting through me, and I try to massage them as inconspicuously as possible. But he sees, just as he always does. With a particularly smug nod, he tents his fingers together, resting his elbows on the table, and leans forward.

"Yes, Sherlock. Keep a firm hold on it. We wouldn't want it to get away from you, now would we?"

There's teasing in the question, but it's absent of any malice or true judgment. There is, however, the smallest hint of a warning. It's unnecessary, though. I'm fully aware of the risks.

I'm saved from having to respond to it by the clearing of John's throat. I turn slightly to see him passing through the entryway to the dining room. He comes to a stop just behind me, and he places a light hand on the arm of my chair. There is a mere breath of space between us, and the air there seems to vibrate.

"Got us all packed," John says with hard cheeriness. His tone leaves no room for argument. "We should be all set." His loud, clear voice shakes something loose inside of me, and my hands fall away, the pain miraculously gone. Glancing down at me, he lowers his volume somewhat. "Whenever you're ready." His hand drops down and gives my elbow a light squeeze, and I try to hide the jolt I feel at that.

These touches have been coming with more frequency over the last week. They come peripherally, almost unnoticeably: little brushes of hands as we pass one another; a touch that lingers on the elbow or the shoulder; the slightest contact of our thighs as we sit together on the couch. One would think that I'd be used to them by now, but for some reason, I'm not growing desensitized to them. If anything, just the opposite seems to be true. I'm hyperaware of them, anticipatory of them, even. But I shouldn't be. I should be pushing them away.

My nerves are a tightened, confusing ball, tangled up in the conflicting urges to indulge and repress all of these warring impulses.

"Sherlock?"

It takes delayed moments for me to realize that I've been staring at his hand for the last few seconds.

My eyes flash up to his, and I open my mouth to speak. A mangled cough comes out, instead. And truly, John is deceptively profound. This maddening, confounding, endlessly frustrating man. He's certainly managed to get quite a few wires crossed in this traitorous brain of mine. I clear my throat and try again.

"I'm ready. Let's go. Now."

I push to my feet and pull the napkin off my lap and drop it on the table. Mycroft is watching the two of us, his eyes drawn together. And I don't want to know what he's seen pass between us. I can't acknowledge what's building here, what's threatening to spill over. I'm not built to hold it, I know. It's going to consume me and swallow me whole.

John's hand starts to fall away from my elbow, and I lean into the touch without fully recognizing my actions. Almost on instinct, he responds in kind, tipping toward me, his hand finding my hip and resting there for only a beat before jerking away. We flinch away from each other, recovering awkwardly as we try to shuffle into casual stances.

When I look at him, John gives me a slow, conspiratorial sigh that is followed quickly by a weak chuckle.

"Come on, Sherlock Holmes, I think Baker Street misses you."

The newspaper is back in front of his face, but I hear Mycroft give a little huff of laughter. Never ones for sentimental goodbyes, we exchange no words. Instead, I give Mycroft a slight nod, and he gives a flick of his paper in response. John makes short work of collecting our luggage, and by the time we're ready, a car is idling out front, waiting to take us home.

The car ride feels entirely too short. John is right beside me, his leg a hairsbreadth away from mine. We don't comment on the proximity, and we definitely don't say a word during those strange few seconds when our fingers somehow find each other and accidentally tangle together.

We don't look at each other, either. There is something simmering beneath our skin, leaking into the air, and it's easier for us to pretend that it's not there. But it's unsettled between us, and I don't think that I've ever felt this uneven in my entire life. There are waves inside of me, throwing me about and hurling me up and down. My hand curls around his wrist, and I anchor myself against the roll of the swells.

When we pull up to Baker Street, a sudden iron weight drops onto my chest. And I'm not entirely sure if I can face it. Part of me is amazed that this place is still standing. Part of me is amazed that _I'm _still standing. John pulls me out of the car. My hand clutches tighter around his wrist, and I know it must hurt him, but he doesn't say a word. He leads me through the door and up the stairs, my body doubling over and leaning towards his. _Help me, John._

It comes as a shock to see that our flat is still in one piece, and I sag with relief. There are no cracks, no rips or holes. There's just John, holding on to me as I hold on to him. We stand there for what feels like hours.

"Welcome back," he says softly. And he seems to mean that in more ways than one.

"Welcome home," is my unthinking reply.

* * *

><p>Nights don't pass easily for us. They're lonely and suffocating, full of thoughts and dreams that we can't run away from. There's something smothering about them, like we're being slowly crushed by them, and the time we spend waiting for morning seems to stretch longer and longer with each passing day.<p>

It's harder for John, I know. I'm used to the voids, used to at the emptiness. He struggles under it. I can feel him, just as I always do now, and I can feel the way he wrestles with all the demons inside of him, all of the feelings that haunt him. And I know that he needs something, wants something from me, but I can't give it to him. Because I don't understand. I can barely grapple with my own demons, and I don't know how to integrate him into the cracks in my life.

I don't know how to fix this; I can't fix anything. I don't have all the pieces. And I can't be what he needs. John needs me to be brilliant, needs me to be focused. But I can't be. I broke so easily. I'm useless. A mechanized, self-destructing machine.

John's taken to wandering at nights. When we were at Mycroft's, I could hear him move through the house, meandering endlessly. As always, he'd seemed to be dragging me along with him. Here, he's cramped, boxed in. I wonder if it's my fault. I forever seem to be trapping him in, backing him into corners. He's getting lost in the depth of me.

And I'm getting crushed by the weight of him. I'm just fighting to keep myself afloat, to keep myself out of the pit. The void calls to me, but I don't want to fall in. I won't fall in. Because John needs this. He needs to move on. Move forward. He deserves better than regression. Better than me. But for John, I try to stay afloat.

Tonight is a late night. They all are now. I just lie in bed and listen to John walk and walk and walk in the dark. _That's right, John. Keep going. Keep moving forward. Move fast enough, and it might not catch up to you_.

Strange desires grip me under the stifling blanket of night. A need to see him. An urge to be near him. But I won't go to him. Won't see him. _Don't worry, John, I won't drag you back._ I hear the clock sound. It's half past two in the morning. I hear the creak of the floor boards, shifting under his weight. I toss and turn, trying to sleep.

Everything aches, and I curl in on myself. We are so close, and yet, I feel flung away from him, inaccessible. I don't know what he needs, but a desperate, terrible part of me wishes that I could be it for him.

A shadow passes under my door, and everything seems to freeze. My heart stutters, staggers, then shudders to a halt. Nerves rupture, their ends split and splayed. The door cracks open, a small seam of light spilling over the floor.

My lungs and chest fill so quickly that it feels as though they're about to burst. The tumult of panic is going to sweep me away. It's going to swallow me whole. Except for John. He's keeping me anchored. Holding me here. And I'll stay afloat. For John.

"Sherlock?"

I don't answer. I can hear the hesitation in his voice. Tendrils of fear curl in my stomach. I push up to my elbows and look steadily into his eyes. He's leaning against the doorjamb, his hand still tightly closed over the handle.

And something fraught and desperate and devastating drops between us, passes between our blinks. After a moment's pause, I can hear the floor shifting as he walks over to me. Though it's ridiculous to think, grief seems to have made his footfalls heavier. Dead weights. He pauses at the edge of my bed, and everything within me, all of the mass and the blood and the tissue and the marrow, give a lurch.

Ever so slightly, I shift over, making room. I feel the momentary chill of the sheet being lifted away. And then, he's beside me, all of his warmth cascading over me. And I absorb it all, feel it pass through me.

We don't touch, but this is intimate. Terrifyingly so. We're in the same airspace, swallowing each other's breaths. Sleep seems impossible. Everything seems impossible. My ribs are compacting and my muscles are shortening, tightening up. And I can't move. I can't breathe. _John?_

Achingly, I stare into his eyes, needing him to pull me up. Needing him to carry me through. Ragged breathing spills between us. And I'm floundering at this. Gasping at dry air.

And John—sold, dependable, John—just reaches out, finds my hand, and closes his fingers around my wrist. And just like that, it's easy again. Everything releases, a simple, gushing relief. It was so impossible, and now, it's not. That's what John Watson is for.

My skin unravels, the invisible lines undulating toward him. Every one of his fibers seems loomed with mine. I'm inhaling him, drawing him in. He's been absorbed into my bloodstream, changing everything within me. And I feel him in the set of my bones, and I let a heavy, dawning peace come over me.

And I can do this. I can be this. He gives me the smallest twitch of a smile, and I try to fight down the spasms of terror that ricochet inside of me. _Okay, John. I can do this. I can be this for you._

The bed seems to move with the force of our heartbeats, and together, we drop into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**…**

In the morning, he is gone, and I try not to panic.

_Just because I always leave doesn't mean that he has to, too._

The emptiness on the other side of the bed seems to decant into me, and I try not to drown in it. Pushing the sheets back, I get to my feet and stumble uncertainly toward the kitchen. The upwelling of dread threatens to consume me, but I swallow it down.

I round the corner, my nerves tripping over themselves, and I see him. He's standing in the kitchen, drinking his tea. Looking up, he smiles at me and offers me a cup. And it's so easy. As easy as breathing.

I accept his offering wordlessly, trying to ignore the way that I can feel his body heat washing over me, pushing and pulling me in a simple, reassuring tide. I grapple with the confusion, try not to lose myself in it. _You're scaring me, John. Stop it. I can't do it. _A ripple passes between us, and he lands a hand on my elbow, giving it a light squeeze.

And everything clears. And I know exactly who he is. He's John. I'm Sherlock. It's us. And we're going to be okay. His smile deepens, as if reaffirming this thought.

"Greg called. We've got a case."

I nod slowly. Because we can do this. Because it's us. Just the two of us against the rest of the world.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Something Corporate, "Wait"<strong>

**xxx**


	23. Chapter 23

_"I don't mind."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>23. Forget Your Scars; We'll Forget Mine<span>

I look at Sherlock with his sleep-mussed hair and his bleary eyes, standing awkwardly in the kitchen in his pajamas, looking infinitely vulnerable and the slightest bit befuddled, and I feel something like affection tug at my heart. No. It's not something like affection; it is affection, plain and simple. My eyes trail down his body, taking in the thin, cotton shirt and the silk pants that hang loosely around his bony hips. His feet are bare, and his toes give the smallest wiggle, almost like they're breaking rank then falling back in line.

And for some reason, those naked feet are what get me. They're just so exposed, so frankly bare against the hardwood floor. And it strikes me that no one else in the world gets to see him like this: so rumpled, so undone. For everyone else, he just springs into their lives, fully formed in his peevish and demanding ways, forever moving and flinging his genius about. They never see his entire self, never experience the true depth of who he is. They only get the surface. I get the layers.

With me, he stands still. And only around me, he becomes himself. Of course, he's still ornery and difficult, often irascible and insufferably smug, but there are other moments, too. Every now and then, I'm afforded small glimpses into the man underneath, at the surprisingly human parts of him. It's an astonishingly intimate thing to know about a person: how he behaves outside of the public eye; how he lives and breathes inside of his home; his private routines and the parts of himself that he keeps from the world. And I realize that this is much more than an oddity that I've been gifted; it's a privilege. It's a privilege to know this man as thoroughly as I do.

I feel the full-body collision of that realization, and I give a deep inhale, like the wind's been knocked out of me. Sherlock's blinking at me with that distant expression on his face that always occurs when he's faced with feelings that his brain doesn't know how to process. Sometimes, I wonder if Sherlock's mind rejects emotions the way a body does an organ donation. He always flinches away from them, trying to fight off those foreign assailants that are going to bring him down from the inside.

The telltale flicker of fear skates across his face, and he continues to hang stiffly at the edge of the kitchen, watching me warily, as though afraid I might bolt at any point. He hasn't asked me any questions about the case, which is weird. Normally, he'd be getting dressed, sweeping out of the flat, and leaving me running to catch up in his wake. But instead, he's just staring at me, squinting hard at me, trying to understand.

It's not hard to guess what's got him thrown. Memories of last night come bubbling up, and admittedly, I'm a little uncertain, myself. I had just been so tired and so desperate. And I'd spent night after night, wandering around, feeling a hollowness at my core that wanted nothing more than to be filled. It was an aching emptiness, one that billowed up into my chest cavity, leaving me feeling ill and constantly in pain. And all I knew was that the second I'd lain down next to Sherlock and felt the comforting solidity of his body an arm's length away, it had all dissipated, leaving me feeling warm and reassured.

Because he doesn't drag me backward. He carries me through.

The fear I feel at that is almost enough to double me over. There has to be a catch. There is always a catch. Happiness just isn't one of those things that I'm given without strings attached. And, oh, God, it hadn't occurred to me until just now that I was considering a chance of happiness with him. But it's there, that breathy promise that we might find our way back to normal. Well, what's normal for us, anyway.

Sherlock's watching me, waiting to take his cues from me. I hope that that anxious hitch in his eyes isn't a permanent feature now. I wish he'd get some of his old certainty back. He's far too skittish right now; it's almost as though I can feel all of his nerves fluttering through me. And I know I have to fix this, have to make this better.

Filling a second cup of tea, I push it gently toward him across the table. Hesitantly, he steps closer to me and reaches for it. There is the smallest tremble in his fingers, and it makes my heart tip to see it. Before I even realize I'm doing it, I reach across and capture his wrist in my hand and give it a light squeeze. Soothingly, I run my thumb across the soft, translucent skin there. It's tissue-thin, and I can feel his pulse hammering away beneath my touch.

We're both taking short, shallow breaths. It's almost as though we're afraid to make too big or too sudden of a movement. And there's still that trembling beneath my fingers. He starts to twist his arm, and I loosen my grip to let him go. But he's not pulling away. Instead, he turns his hand so that it comes around my wrist. And it would seem that my knees have gone a bit wobbly.

Neither one of us is looking at the other. Instead, our gazes are trained on our interlocked hands. My heart feels like it's been knocked loose and is ricocheting somewhere inside my ribs, and I feel suddenly far too exposed in my pajamas and dressing gown. His long, slender fingers curl into a pleading grip, one that's tight and inescapable.

I'd woken up earlier that morning with our hands in a very similar position. We'd fallen asleep clutching each other, almost like we were afraid that we'd drift away if we didn't keep tight enough hold of each other. And maybe that was true. We were, after all, lying about as far apart as was possible without either of us falling off of the bed. He'd looked so young and vulnerable as he'd held onto me, his other hand at his mouth, his fingers curled against his lips. And as I'd stared at him, slumbering peacefully across from me, I'd wanted nothing more than to pull him closer and never let him go.

And it had terrified me.

I feel the same terror right now, the same desire to yank him closer and tether him to me. I let him go, instead. We both pretend like we don't notice the way we're thrown off balance as we fall away from each other.

Sheepishly, I run my hand along the back of my neck and watch as Sherlock rubs his hand over his heart, a wince to his features and a crumple at his shoulders. With a curt nod in my direction that comes off a bit aborted at the end, Sherlock abandons his tea and heads back to his room, presumably to change.

I give a deep sigh and then move to my room to do the same.

* * *

><p>Greg is his usual blunt, slightly antagonized self when we get to the morgue, if not a little flummoxed. He seems happy enough to see Sherlock, and neither one of them comments on the last time they'd seen each other. He even gives a rueful laugh as Sherlock launches into his diatribe about not being able to see the crime scene before the body was moved. There's no real fervor behind Sherlock's rant, and he abandons it quickly enough to go look at the body that Molly has on the table.<p>

I'm about to follow him over when Greg lands a hand on my elbow and pulls me aside. He raises a single eyebrow, and for the first time, I see a little uncertainty slip into his features. No doubt, Sherlock saw it written across his face right away, and for some reason, it makes me angry. I just want to shout at everyone to start trusting him, want them to stop heaping their doubts onto him. Lord knows he's carrying around enough of his own at present.

I have to remind myself that Greg only means well, and I mask my anger, holding it back.

"Look," he starts, scratching the side of his nose awkwardly, "is he okay to be doing this?"

"Of course he is," I grind out, fighting to keep the defensive vehemence from my voice. "The work is good…the work is what he needs right now. He's just a little unsteady on his feet. That's all. He just had a moment of weakness. He's allowed. He's only human, for Chrissake!"

Lestrade holds his hands up in an attempt to mollify me. "Okay, okay. I'm not arguing with you. Just making sure. There's been some rumors going around is all."

My heart is hammering is so hard that I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears. "What rumors?"

Shifting awkwardly, Greg looks anywhere but at me. I can tell he regrets bringing it up. "Look, it's nothing. Just some random pieces in the newspaper. Saying he's lost his touch. It's all rubbish."

"Yeah. It is. Rubbish. That's exactly what it is."

At the same time, we look over at Sherlock, who's examining the body and ignoring Molly's friendly chatter. Together, we heave long-suffering sighs and go over to join them. Sherlock glances up at us as we approach, and his gaze lingers on me for just a beat longer than necessary, and I feel a peculiar rush at the look.

And it's so good to see him back at that, like he'd never stopped. And it feels right that I'm here, by his side. With a jolt, I realize that I've essentially abandoned my job. It's been weeks since I've last been there, and I hadn't even noticed. Sherlock had consumed it all, and I'd let myself fall in. It was all so natural, so easy. I didn't feel like myself in that suburban life with the predictable hours and the mundane day-to-day routine.

This is where I belong; I can feel it in my bones. But the fear's back again. Because I can't trust it. There's got to be a catch. There is always a catch.

Molly's talking in the background, and I tune in just in time to catch the last of her sentence.

"…but what's most peculiar is that the body was missing something when they found it."

Sherlock flinches hard at that and wheels around to face her, his knuckles digging into the sides of his head, kneading at his temples.

"What was it? What was it missing?"

The manic gleam is back in his eyes, and his movements have started to stutter. The question comes with a desperate edge, and he's looking at Molly with an alarming level of urgency. I'm at his side in a flash, my hand at the small of his back. He relaxes into the touch instantly, the tension snapping out of his body as we come into light contact with each other.

The proximity spooks us instantly, however, and at the same moment, we jerk away, keeping a safe pocket of air between us without letting it stretch too far. Some of the anxiety is back in his eyes, but he's got it tempered now. Or smothered, at the very least.

"What was he missing?" he asks again, keeping his voice level.

Molly and Greg are both looking at us with mouths slightly agape, but neither of them comment on the strange interaction they've just witnessed. Blinking rapidly, Molly composes herself and answers quickly.

"His liver." She clears her throat, and looks up at Sherlock. "He's missing his liver. It was cut out of him."

"Hm."

Sherlock's relief is so palpable that it makes me go limp with it. His bizarre reaction bothers me, but I don't push him on it. He just needs time. And space. He keeps drifting closer and then ebbing away, and I don't want to give him a reason to retreat even further.

I wait for Sherlock to launch into his usual assessments and deductions, but he stays silent. His face stony, he turns on his heel to leave, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I'm following. Shrugging my apologies at Greg and Molly, I hurry after him, needing to stay close to him. It's getting harder and harder for me to let him out of my sight.

The drive home is silent, with Sherlock locked inside that breathtakingly brilliant and maddeningly mysterious mind of his. Sometimes, it feels like I won't even know a quarter of what goes on in there. When we get back to Baker Street, he vaults himself out of the cab and up the stairs, locking himself in his room as soon as he's passed the threshold.

Trying not the let the hurt of that action reach me, I spend the rest of the day unpacking. Mycroft had had the rest of my things brought over during the day, something for which I am begrudgingly grateful. I hadn't had a lot of possessions, so they don't keep me occupied for long. Once I've done, I spend the rest of the day alternating between reading and staring listlessly out of the window, soaking in the peace and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the catch.

I eat dinner alone with nothing but Sherlock's closed door to keep me company, and then I go to bed, feeling heavy and alone.

* * *

><p>I wake up in a cold sweat, my pulse racing and my breathing labored and thick. It takes several minutes for me to get my bearings and realize that I'm here, at Baker Street, and that Sherlock is here, too, alive and well and in one piece. I shake my head and try to clear the images that are cluttering up my consciousness: Sherlock flying off the top of St. Bart's, shattering into a million pieces; Sherlock in some foreign land, being beaten mercilessly, his skin shredded and flayed; Sherlock with a thousand guns trained on him, the roar of hundreds of helicopters surrounding us; Sherlock riddled with bullets, bleeding out at my feet.<p>

I give a hoarse cough and remind myself that he's not dead; he's not there—in that plot in the ground—he's here with me. I don't have to look at the clock to know what time it is. This is the pattern of my nights, now. I push to my feet and begin my pacing. I'm starting to think that I'll never get peace. That I'll never know true rest. Because there's always a catch.

The creak of the floor is familiar, as are the shadows on the wall. Yes, I'm well-acquainted with Baker Street after dark. I walk and walk and walk, too tired to fight it. Too tired to stop.

My feet take me to his door without my brain telling them where to go. And my heart comes to a sputtering stop when I see that it's open, just the smallest bit. The crack is deliberate, a tentative invitation, a meek offering. And I'm greedy, and I'm desperate, and I take it.

Softly, I push the door open and step lightly into the room. I wait a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the deeper dark of his room before moving forward. He's still awake; I can hear it in his uneven breathing and in the rustle of the sheets as he moves over, making room for me.

It's easier not to think, so I just act instead. My body aches for it, and no matter how much my mind screams that it's a bad idea, that it can't be trusted, I can't fight the pull. And for just a little while, in that quiet, confusing space during the small hours of morning when nothing seems real anyway, I let myself give in to the need, just a little bit.

He's shaking again, moving the bed with the small tremors of his body. The panic is leaking out of him and spilling into me, and I know that I have to find a way to fight this; to control this. Unthinkingly, I reach out to him, closing my hand over his shoulder. His warmth seeps through the thin cotton of his sleeve and shoots out to the ends of my fingertips.

Calm comes by degrees, slowly bleeding through his body. I keep my hand there through it, feeling as the shakes quiet to tiny tremors then decrease to small vibrations and finally stop altogether. His body deflates slightly under my hand as he lets go of the huge burst of air that he'd been holding in that whole time. Ever so slightly, he shifts toward me, and I let him into my space. The easy contentment curls warmly in my ribcage, and I start to let myself trust it. But it's no good. There has to be a catch. He makes a truncated motion to reach out to me, his hand halted halfway between us. There is always a catch. My heart gives a painful lurch, skipping a beat. And then, it hits me. The catch is in my heart. Sherlock drags his hand back toward his chest. Or maybe, it's in his.

"John," he breathes through a yawn.

I pause for agonizing, delayed seconds before answering. "Yeah?"

"How do I know?"

I furrow my brow, knowing he can sense it even if he can't see it. "How do you know what?"

"How do I know when you're…better?" His voice sends shockwaves through my body, vibrating pleasantly through the hand that I still have on his shoulder. Before I can answer, he gives a dissatisfied sigh and tries again. "I mean…how will I be able to tell that you've gotten over it?"

He winces at the words, surprisingly realizing that they're a touch insensitive. But I don't mind. I can see the sentiment beneath. And it touches me deeply to know that he wants to understand this, wants to understand my pain and help me through it.

Part of me wants to laugh a little bit at the ridiculousness of it. That this man, a true genius, can't understand something as simple as human emotion will always be a wonder to me. But he's starting to learn. I can see it in him. Can feel it, too: the depth of all those layers.

"I'm not sure, Sherlock," I finally answer. "Grief never gets easier, no matter how many times you go through it. It just takes time. And it can seem endless, but there's always a way to get through it."

"How did," he pauses, and the darkness surrounding us suddenly seems ten times heavier than it did before. "How did," he tries again. "How did…Mary…get you through it when…you know…"

"I was getting over losing you?" I finish for him. I feel him nod, hear the scratch of his curls against the pillow.

There's a searing in my stomach climbing its way up my throat, and I know that I'm going to regret what I'm about to say, but something stronger within me is pushing it out, needing him to hear it.

"To tell you the truth, Sherlock, I don't think I ever recovered until you came back."

The silence between us takes on a new edge, and I wait there, feeling horribly ripped open and exposed. The minutes drag by, and I feel a new layer drop between us. Then, very slowly, very cautiously, he slides over to me, only the tiniest bit closer, and I close my eyes against it. Against all the feelings that are swallowing me up. Because I'm consumed by him.

"John." It's barely a whisper, but I hear it. "John, I understand. I was…I was dead in all the ways that mattered, until I wasn't. Until I came back." He seems to be talking his way around something huge, and I feel my own nerves spiking higher in response. "There were so many empty spaces. And then, they were filled." He hesitates. "You…" he loses his nerve and lets the sentence trail off.

But I have a pretty good idea of what he was going to say. His words from so long ago come back to me: "John, you fill me up."

I give a deep, shuddering breath and bite down the fear.

Sherlock. I can't fill you up because I'm already consumed by you. You are a drug, and I forgot how potent you are. You're overpowering, but you're never enough. It's too late. I can't get clean. I've already absorbed too much of you.

He's the exception to every rule, the one thing I keep getting caught on.

There's always a catch.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title inspiration: Mayday Parade, "I Swear, This Time I Mean It"<strong>

**xxx**


	24. Chapter 24

_"But let me tell you this—you were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So there."_

John POV

* * *

><p><span>24. This is Simple; This is New<span>

Halfway through the night, I'm jolted awake by a lingering sense of _wrong_. Something's off; I can feel it. Next to me, Sherlock has gone rigid, small spasms rocking his body every few minutes. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, and little, pleading whimpers are escaping through his lips. My body, weirdly attuned to his distress, has responded in kind, rousing me and mirroring the deep-seated terror currently festering between us.

"John…please…help me…" he moans desperately, his fingers splaying and looking for me. His anguish twists something deep inside of me, and a swift, unnerving impulse sweeps through me. I want to pull him towards me, hold him against my chest, and draw all of his fear and pain into me. And I can't think about what that means. Can't think about how much I want to wrap my arms around him and just hold him. Because that's ridiculous. He's my best friend, and I'm just grieving and lonely. That's all this is. Just residual affection and vague longing combining to make me reach for the nearest source of warmth. _That's all this is._

But then, Sherlock gives another pained cry, and all other thoughts fade away. Almost acting on its own, my hand falls toward him, reaching out for him. It stops mere centimeters away from his face, but I suddenly can't seem to bring myself to touch him. For whatever reason, I can't close that small distance.

If I'm honest with myself, I can admit that this is ludicrous. We've crossed unfathomable distances together, only to be stopped short by this mere breath of space. _But why does it matter anyway? Why do I want this?_

I shake my head. I _don't_ want this. I don't even know what _this _is. Closing my eyes, I try to force myself back to sleep, ignoring the way one of my hands has a death grip on the other and the way my heart is hammering its way up my throat.

It's no good. Sherlock's hurt screams too loudly at me, his tremors are too jarring. Shifting infinitesimally closer, I again reach out for him, this time, aiming for his wrist. The wrist is easy. The wrist is safe. My grip comes tightly around his arm, pulling slightly.

"Sherlock," I whisper, sounding more fraught than I'd intended. "Sherlock, wake up."

"John, John help me."

"I will; I am. Just, please. Wake up."

I give his wrist a light shake, but he doesn't respond.

"John! Please. Where are you going? Don't go! Don't let me go."

Unexpectedly, his arm flies out, knocking my grip on him loose. Heaving desperate gasps, he lunges forward, his hand finding the front of my shirt and fisting the fabric there. Instantly, I freeze. His incoherent muttering has broken down into a constant chant of my name, over and over again. And it would be so easy to pull him close, hold him through this.

I push him gently away, instead. My hands are still on his shoulders and his fingers are still tangled in the front of my shirt when a deep, gusting sigh throws him suddenly into consciousness. His eyes instantly find mine, as if they'd never even contemplate going anywhere else. Once he realizes it's there, he draws his hand away from me, allowing it to drop limply to the mattress and slither back against his chest.

Our breathing mingles together in the stagnant air, sounding uneven and ragged. We seem unable to tear our eyes away. Something huge is building between us, I can feel it, and it feels like it's swallowing me whole. It would be too easy to fall into this, so I push away, pulling myself into a sitting position. Seemingly at a loss, Sherlock copies me, obviously taking my lead again. And it strikes me that he's now shaking for a completely different reason.

Finally, I rip my gaze away and study the dark wall in front of me.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

Our voices are a little on the raw side, but neither of us comments on it. I let the silence linger. His uncertainty only serves to increase my own anxiety, and I have no idea how to breach this rapidly-growing chasm that's opening up between us.

Sherlock speaks suddenly, anxiously.

"Moriarty, he, was eating my heart. Cutting it up into little, tiny pieces. And he was eating it. And you, you left me."

There's no accusation in his tone; only careful resignation, like he's accepted an eventuality. A sickening wave of nausea hits me at his words, and a small voice in the back of my head tells me that it can only be cured by having him a little closer, having him tightly in my arms. This revelation only serves to more firmly cement me where I am. After much too long a pause, I turn to him. He's hunched over, his hand pressed against his heart, and he's not looking at me.

"Sherlock—" I start. But he shakes his head and turns away, lying down so that his body is curved away from me.

And it's not just _his_ heart that's been cut up into little, tiny pieces.

**…**

I'm not surprised when I wake up alone, but I am thrown by how keenly I feel the empty space beside me. Funny thing about needing people: being without them isn't like being without a limb; it's like being without a skeleton. Like there's nothing inside of you that's holding you together or keeping you whole. And as I climb out of bed, I feel fractured, diminished; almost as though Sherlock's walked off with my rib cage, leaving my heart unprotected and my lungs strangely robbed of air.

And, wow. I need him. _I need him; I need him; I need him; I need him._

The words play a continuous rhythm through my head as I get up and get ready. They pound from my feet as I walk through the flat, looking for Sherlock. They dance out of my fingers as I text him, asking him where he is.

_I need him; I need him; I need him; I need him._

* * *

><p>He's at the morgue, staring at the body with forcible concentration. The scary, blank look is on his face again, the one that turns my stomach sour and makes my pulse beat double-time. Molly is hovering behind him, smiling uncertainly. Her eyes are riveted on Sherlock, tinged with concern and indulgence, and just the smallest pinch of doubt.<p>

She looks up and smiles more fully at me when I walk in, and I do my best to return it. Though I know it's impolite, I don't stop to chat with her. Besides worry about Sherlock, I can't keep a single thought in my head. I know he's noticed my arrival, but he doesn't acknowledge me right away. It's not until I draw up right beside him that he turns to me. A flicker of fear and something else dances through his eyes, and before I realize it, my hand's at his elbow.

Without realizing it, we've drifted extremely close together. And perhaps the most terrifying part of that is how natural it feels. My thumb drifts back and forth, tracing soothing circles over his arm as I try to calm him and ignore my own panic.

"What's up?" I say carefully, lightly.

He shrugs, making sure not to dislodge my hand with the action.

"Just making sure I didn't miss anything."

There's something off in the cadence of his voice, and he looks at me testily, waiting for me to question him. My hand tightens slightly on his arm, and I fight the urge to pull him into me.

"You didn't, though. You never miss anything." I try to inject my voice with as much confidence I can muster, and it's not hard. I don't doubt him for a second. Deep down, I feel nothing but certainty when I look at him.

His mouth twitches into an unconvinced smile, and he brings his free hand up to massage his forehead. He doesn't believe me. And in this moment, I realize just how shaken he is, just how scared he'd been by his mind pulling itself apart. I can feel him pulling away, but I don't let him go. I need him to understand. I need him to know that it's not broken—that _he's _not broken.

"Hey," I whisper, leaning closer, pretending not to see the way Molly's eyebrows shoot up in surprise at our familiarity. Instinctually, Sherlock tucks his head closer to mine. "Talk to me. What do you see?"

Swallowing hard, he drops his hand to cover the one that I've got on his arm. His fingers are trembling, but they steady at our contact.

"Alcoholic. Long term abuse. Fifteen or more years. Likely caused liver failure. The killer removed the organ that let him down."

For some reason, Sherlock gives a violent shudder. My free hand falters upwards toward his face, but again, I stop myself. Minutes drag between us, and he looks away from me, back to staring at the body. It's tormenting him, I can see it.

Pulling lightly on his arm, I draw him away. This is doing him no good. He's torturing himself, and I can't stand to see it.

"Come on," I say softly. "Let's go home."

* * *

><p>The next few days pass easily enough. Sherlock goes back to his experiments and cheerfully turns a few clients away, solving their cases within the first few minutes of their arrival. We don't talk about Lestrade's case, and we don't talk about Moriarty. There are moments when he seems completely back to normal, and it eases my heart and my breathing, and I start to believe that we can be okay.<p>

Helping this is the fact that we spend every night next to each other. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. But just to myself, I can cede this as truth. Having him beside me, knowing that he's still here and all right, sometimes feels like the only thing getting me through the night. As an unspoken rule, we don't discuss our sleeping arrangements. It's something that just can't be confronted in the daylight. But every night, I tuck myself next to him, taking comfort in the harmony of our breathing and our bodies.

For a while, it works. Together, we find an uneasy peace, and I start to trust it.

Then, one night, I wake up gasping.

It was an old nightmare, one I haven't had in a long time. I've thrown off the sheets in my distress, and they're in a tangled mess at our feet. With a shaking hand, I wipe the sweat off of my face and try to bring myself back into the present. I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest, running my hands through my hair.

Sherlock's awake, watching me. Careful to keep the distance between us, he pushes up onto his elbows. And he's whole. He's alive; not shattered on the ground, not lost to me.

Something in his face centers me, and breathing is suddenly easy again. And then, everything makes sense.

I don't know what's different about tonight; don't know why it took me so long to see. It must have always been there, dormant between us. This is surprisingly simple, but it still manages to take my breath away. It's at once brand new and completely familiar. Without thinking about it, I reach for him. And this time, I don't stop.

My palm makes soft contact against his cheek, and my fingers curve around the back of his head. He goes very still beneath my touch. His hot breath fans across the heel of my hand, a little faster than normal, but still mostly even. The moonlight streaming through the window makes his eyes shine silver. In them, I see the steady thrum of trust. And the smallest sheen of fear. It's like a punch to the gut. _What are we so scared of? Sherlock, it's just you and me. We don't need to be afraid of each other._

But I get it. We have been stripped bare before each other in almost every way possible. I feel so vulnerable right now that it hurts. Sherlock still hasn't moved, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a very, very bad thing. _Please don't leave me alone in this._

"John."

I feel his cheek twitching, and soothingly, I run my thumb back and forth over it. He swallows hard.

"I—I don't know…"

"What?" It feels like the whole bed is shaking with the force of my heartbeat.

"I don't know if I can do this." _Well, that makes two of us._ I wait patiently for him to explain. With a shuddering sigh, his eyes burrow painfully into mine. "I don't know if I can be what you expect me to be." What does that mean? Is he forcing himself to do these things just so that he doesn't lose our friendship? It makes me sick to think that he's just doing this because he thinks it's what I want. He has to want it to. I try to think of a way to reassure him.

"I'm not expecting anything." I know it's the wrong thing to say by the way he deflates. He starts to pull away. "No. I didn't mean it like that."

He pushes himself into a fully sitting position, and I let my hand fall away. He stares down at it, and I see his fingers twitch toward mine. Deciding against it, he brings his hand up to his chest. The gesture is jarring; for some reason, seeing it hurts me more than it normally does.

"Sherlock." Gently, I bring my hand to cover his. We both listen to the steady strum of his heart. It's a reassuring sound, even after all this time. When he looks at me again, the fear's more pronounced. In fact, it's practically anguish. I wish I knew what he was scared of. This is agonizing. _Please, God, don't let me take more than you're able to give_.

"Sherlock," I repeat. It seems to be all that I'm able to say. I take a deep breath. "I'm not expecting you to be anything you're not."

"But I can't be what you _need_." He looks so miserable, it breaks something deep inside of me. "I want to be, but I will let you down."

"Stop. We're not doing this, okay? We're done doing this. Because right now, I feel like _I'm_ letting _you_ down."

He gives a snort that's almost derisive enough to sound like his usual self.

"How could you ever think that?"

"Because, Sherlock, at some point, something I did made you afraid that I'm going to leave you. It's what you're waiting for, isn't it?"

Shrugging, he shakes off my hand and brings his knees up to his chin. Side by side, we sit in our identical positions. I take a steadying breath, and glance over at him, willing him to understand what I'm saying, needing him to believe.

"For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere."

With a nod, he lets his legs slide out, and he lies down again. I follow suit and pull the sheets over top of us. Things still feel unsettled between us. I turn and face him, only to find his eyes already waiting for mine. I wish he'd stop looking so worried.

"Hey. Do you trust me?"

He gives a small but genuine smile, and something in me releases.

"Only you."

Our eyes flutter shut, but our breathing is too uneven for us to be actually sleeping. Just when I start feeling relaxed enough to start dozing, I feel him move beside me. His hand drags across the mattress and finds mine. I keep it limp and relenting, but I know he can probably feel my pulse racing. He pulls it up so that it hovers just above his cheek. Without any further hesitation, I close the gap and grip his face lightly.

He lets out a spurt of breath, and I can feel him blinking rapidly. Fear is pooling between us. _How do I make this okay? Think. Think. No. Stop thinking. Thinking doesn't get you anywhere. Just act._

I shift forward without breaking my hold and bring my forehead to rest against his. The tension melts away, and then it's just us. This is simple. This is easy. We just need to breathe. A wave of calm ripples between us, and sleep claims us and carries us away.

* * *

><p><strong>So, when I started writing this, I more or less anticipated that this would be about 30 chapters long. That was before I was 100% sure what I wanted to do with the story. Recently, I sat down and sort of figured it out, and I realized that I needed to at least double my anticipated number of chapters. So, yeah; this is going to be extremely long. And I am so very sorry about that!<strong>

**xxx**


	25. Chapter 25

_"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."_

John POV

* * *

><p>All things considered, the things we do in sleep really shouldn't be held against us. It's not like they're conscious decisions. So, for instance, the fact that I wake up completely entwined with Sherlock (his head pillowed on my chest, our legs tangled together, my arms tightly wound around him) means absolutely nothing at all. Neither does the fact that I can't seem to breathe properly once I've extracted myself from the confusing pile of limbs and sleep-warm bedding. And it's simply too early for me to wonder why exactly it is that I feel such a loss as I stare at him, laying there alone.<p>

He looks so achingly vulnerable there, his veins showing through the translucent skin at his temples. Unthinkingly, I lean over him and bring a finger to trace over them before dragging a hand through his thick, wild curls. It doesn't escape me how easy it would be to just fall back next to him, to tuck my head against his shoulder, and pretend like I'm not afraid of this. But morning casts a harsh light over things, and the stark reality is that some things are easier to walk away from than to lose forever. But that doesn't mean that this doesn't hurt.

Sherlock's unconscious form doesn't seem to take too kindly to the sudden space between us, either. There's a scrunch to his forehead and an unhappy pull at his mouth as he stretches out, arms searching, legs curling into his chest. Discontent passing through him, he says something under his breath, his lips forming something that looks suspiciously like my name, but I choose to tell myself that it's just a yawn.

Across the room, his phone bleats, and I, glad for the distraction, absentmindedly cross over to answer it. Greg's name flashes across the screen, and I stiffen instantly, not eager to find out what he wants. As much as I want Sherlock to get back to his normal self, I don't want to push him before he's ready, and he's clearly struggling with this. Something is still scaring him. Something is still holding him back. I can see it in the way he flinches at odd moments and in the way he'll look at me sometimes with haunted eyes. Eyes that hollow me out and cut me deep.

Resignedly, I slide open the phone and give Greg a cursory greeting, an already protective hunch forming about my shoulders. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he launches into a complicated explanation regarding another body that has been discovered. I let the details pass by me by, strangely unable to focus. I'm too distracted by Sherlock, sleeping soundly, safely cocooned in the warmth away from all of these expectations, away from all the pressure.

Greg pauses in his ramblings, a question in his silence. He seems to be reluctant to ask for Sherlock, but I can tell that he needs him. With an uncertain sigh, I draw closer to the bed and try to bite down my growing anxiety. Sherlock's never been fragile or in need of protection from anything. If anything, it's the people around him who need to be careful. He attracts danger like no one I've ever seen. And he inflicts damage without even being aware of it. I'd learned that the hard way.

But I feel strangely in possession of him, which doesn't makes sense, except for the part where it does completely. Because we belong to each other. Don't we? I mean, when I close my eyes and try to picture those years I'd spent without him, it's enough to put me on the ground. Like my lungs don't know how to draw breath anymore, like my heart forgot how to beat. Or maybe, they just don't want to, anymore.

Greg's voice draws me back into the present, and I realize that I'd barely been affording him any attention at all.

"Sorry," I say finally. "What was that last bit?"

Ever patient, Greg repeats his last words, and I perk up when I hear where he's wanting to send us.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Let me just talk to Sherlock. But I'm sure it should be fine."

"What are you doing answering Sherlock's phone, anyway?" Greg fires back.

And I don't have a good answer for that. Because I'm standing in the middle of Sherlock's room, watching him sleep in a bed where I'd been tucked in next to him only a few moments earlier. And what's perhaps most alarming about that is that I feel none of the terror that should accompany the realization that I'm suddenly intimately aware of my best friend's sleeping habits, and what's more, I'm not sure that I could do without that knowledge ever again.

It's not the most normal life that I lead.

Greg clears his throat, and I stutter out a paper-thin excuse about always answering his phone, when, in fact, I've never done it before. He lets me get away with it though, something for which I'm infinitely grateful, and after hasty goodbyes, we hang up.

Turning the phone over and over in my fingers, I stare at Sherlock, our weird cord of communion stretching between us. With one last, lingering look at him, I force myself to walk away from him, and as I go, it strikes me that in this moment, and in every moment after this, we will have to live with the uncomfortable reality that within us exist truly terrifying aches and desires that I'm not entirely sure we're equipped to handle. And I don't know what would hurt more: digging those up, or leaving them buried.

Sunlight streams through the flat as I pass through it, and I don't know how I had ever been able to leave this, don't know how I could have ever called any other place home. Because the truth is, this is the only place where I've felt settled. This is the only place where I've felt whole.

After a while, I shake my head and move into the kitchen, Sherlock's phone still in my hand. I tap my lip, considering. He'll be cross with me, I know, but it'll be good for him. I pull up Sherlock's contact list until I find the number I need.

* * *

><p>When noon hits, and I'd just decided to go see about Sherlock, he shuffles into the room, looking disoriented and out of sorts. In the past, Sherlock always seemed more alert, more active in the mornings, but for some reason, lately, he always seems to be one step behind, and I don't know what to attribute the change to.<p>

His eyes clear when they land on me, and I give him a small smile, ignoring the way my heart starts to inflate and never seems to stop. Less warily than usual, he comes closer to me, and I hand him his coffee—black, two sugars—and brace myself to tell him the news.

I push his phone toward him and study him over the tops of my fingers, lacing them together in front of my face. He takes it without comment. Pursing my lips, I let him enjoy his coffee for a minute before speaking.

"Greg called this morning. They've got another body, missing organs, just like the other one they found."

Sherlock looks up at me, intelligence sparking in his eyes, and I can feel his interest levels rising. But there is the smallest tremor in his hand, something we both try to ignore. With a deep, puncturing sigh, I continue haltingly.

"Lestrade said that the family isn't being terribly cooperative, and he wanted to know if we could go talk to them."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. The previous excitement has evaporated somewhat, and he doesn't look particularly thrilled with the aspect of having to go speak with the victim's family. The most tedious part of the job for Sherlock is having to deal with the emotions and grief of those left behind. In the past, I usually tended to agree with him, deeming it the best thing if he interacted with them as little as possible. He isn't exactly the most reassuring or sympathetic figure.

But this could be a good first step to getting Sherlock back on his feet, and given their location and Greg's request that we speak with them, I find myself more disposed to convince Sherlock to go.

"Why would we speak with the family?" Sherlock snaps, disagreeableness clear in his features.

"You know better than anyone that people keep secrets. And if the family's being withholding, that suggests something suspicious."

Sherlock slumps low in his chair and crosses his arms. "He wants us to interview them? Dull."

"Sherlock, we're lucky Lestrade's letting us in at all, given your recent track record…"

That damned, hurt expression passes over Sherlock's face, and I feel the answering, secondhand ache. I reach for him, but he jerks away, and that pains me more than it probably should.

"Greg has his doubts about me, same as everyone else."

He looks at me testily, as though challenging me. I sigh. If he doesn't know that I have the utmost faith in him by now, then I don't know if he's ever going to know it. For being the most perceptive man I've ever met, he can be incredibly dense the grand majority of the time.

"Lestrade asked you to go because you're the only one who can get the information he needs, and you know it. He needs you."

"Where is he sending us, anyway?" He's still trying for belligerence, but the telltale swell of satisfaction through his chest proves that he's starting to come around.

I grimace slightly, unable to meet his eyes. He isn't going to like this.

"Up near your parents, actually," I say, trying for casual.

Sherlock rounds on me instantly, his eyes flashing dangerously, ire evident in his posture.

"No."

"I've already phoned them Sherlock. They're quite keen on seeing you."

"No," Sherlock repeats mulishly, looking all of five years old.

"They're your parents, Sherlock, and they love you, and they're worried about you. And that's without knowing even half of what I know about what you've been through."

Pushing his lips out stubbornly, Sherlock looks like he wants to keep fighting with me. And it occurs to me that this is a very peculiar argument we're having. Something spouses would argue about, actually. And, whoa, let's not entertain that thought for too long.

"John." And when Sherlock says it, I can tell his building himself up to a massive strop. "You know that I don't like distractions while I'm working. Besides, it's a terrible inconvenience and imposition."

"Your mother made it very clear that it would be her pleasure to see the both of us again—"

"—I meant for me."

Oh, you great git.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to muster patience.

"Sherlock, please don't be difficult. You gave us all quite a scare, and you do not get to dismiss our concern for you. Now, I know it's massivelyinconvenient for you, but you're just going to have to accept that people care about you! Now, we're going to see your parents, and that's it!"

"Fine."

He storms away, back in the direction of the bedroom, an exit that would have been more dramatically effective if he hadn't been sporting pajamas and a frankly impressive case of bedhead.

Grumbling to myself, I put our dishes in the sink and then follow him in there. He's lying on the bed, flipping through his phone and sulking. I smile slightly at the familiar expression. He's a funny, stubborn thing, but I wouldn't take him any other way. When he looks up at me again, I replace the affectionate expression with a stern one, needing him to know that I'm not going to give in on this.

"We probably need to head out soon. Your parents are expecting us later tonight. "

He makes no response, and just like that, I'm irritated again. I give a small huff of annoyance.

"So, you know, we should probably pack." I say the last bit pointedly, hoping that it will spur him into getting up.

With a petulant raise of his eyebrows, Sherlock makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if to say: by all means. Glaring at him, I plant my hands on my hips and try to look commanding and imposing, but we both know that I've already lost this fight. After I mutter under my breath a few more barbed insults hurled his way, all of which he ignores, I haul his bag out of his closet and start throwing clothes in.

"No. I don't want that shirt. And you've packed the wrong pants."

I whirl around and try not to yell at him.

"You are more than welcome to take a crack at it, then!"

"Don't be ridiculous. You're doing fine."

"Oh, right. I forgot, you just like criticizing me for sport. But other than that, I'm doing just swimmingly, right?"

"Don't be cross. Often, it's a way of conveying affection."

I pause, stopped short by his words, and he ducks his head, squinting hard with apparent renewed interest at his phone.

"At least…that's true for other people." He almost gets away with it, but there's a very faint pink around his cheeks, and oh my god, is he blushing? This is getting stranger and stranger by the minute, and it certainly doesn't escape me that there is a certain air of domesticity surrounding us right now.

Which…what? Well, I've always had to parent him. After all, dealing with him is often like dealing with a child. It's not like I'm married to him or anything, and where did that thought come from?

Sherlock's phone vibrates, and his face instantly goes dark, fear stretching around his eyes. Instantly, I'm on the bed, right next to him, trying to get his attention. Schooling all of the fear off of his face, he gives me a decidedly blank look, surreptitiously trying to hide his phone from me.

"Sherlock, what's going on? What are you seeing?" I give a sudden sharp intake of breath in realization. "It's him, isn't it? Moriarty."

He doesn't give a response, but then, he doesn't have to.

"Let me see," I say faintly, barely breathing.

Haltingly, he hands it over to me, his fingers reluctant to let it go. My stomach turns over when I see what's written there. Rows and rows of texts, menacing words, cruel taunts, scroll past. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to hurl the phone across the room, shatter it on the ground. When I recover myself, I realize that I'm shaking uncontrollably.

"How long." And it's flatly not a question. "How long has he been texting you?"

Sherlock shrugs defensively, and I fight the urge to pull him against my chest, despite the desperate want I have to just hold him through this.

"Since he returned, I suppose." Sherlock's response is measured, careful, held at a distance from me.

"All this time?"

Nodding, Sherlock shifts slightly, moving the smallest bit closer to me.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I try to keep my voice low and non-accusatory. Because I don't blame him, I blame myself. Everything was falling apart around him, and for the longest time, I hadn't known. I had just let him suffer like that.

Sherlock twists away from me, throwing the phone to the side.

"Irrelevant. Just another one of his games. Childish, really. His words equate to nothing more than a schoolyard bully, belittling someone else's genius to cloak his own inadequacies."

But he's trembling, and it hurts me, and as true as his words are, I can see that he's scared again, stubbornly repressing it and pushing it away. Reaching through the fear, I lay my hand against his cheek, trying to hold him steady. Soothingly, I run my thumb over his face, and I can feel the tension leak out of him as he folds into the touch.

"You think you lost, don't you?"

He doesn't answer, but I can feel him quivering, can feel his doubt. His breath shudders out, and he raises pained, disbelieving eyes to bore into mine.

"You didn't, though. You didn't. And you're not going to, either. And I know that we're going to be fine. Do you know how I know?"

Going along with me, apparently really needing to believe me, he shakes his head wondrously.

"Last time, you went up against him alone. This time, you have me." I try not to shake when I say it. "Okay? You have me…" You'll always have me.

"Fine, fine. I'll do my best not to let you hold me back."

He tries to act annoyed, but there's a smile in his voice and a sheen of gratitude in his eyes, and I give his cheek a reassuring squeeze before standing back up and turning back to his packing. There's a hum of contentment in the air, and frankly, I'm too glad that it's there to question its source.

I know what Sherlock means to me, and he knows what I mean to him, and that's always been enough. We will always be enough. I drop the article of clothing I'm holding as that thought hits me, and Sherlock doesn't even glance up, utterly unaware of the completely world-changing discovery I've just made.

We are enough. We will always be enough. This is enough. This is home. I want to laugh with the giddy relief of it. I've been holding my breath all this time for nothing.

* * *

><p>Mycroft sends a car to pick us up, something for which I am extremely grateful. Sherlock would have insisted on driving otherwise, and lord knows I've had enough scares lately without having to add his horrific driving to the list.<p>

We pass the drive quietly, with me reading and Sherlock staring out the window on the other side of the car. An easy, rolling peace rests between us, and we push it back and forth between us in a soothing wave. I settle happily in the quiet of the ride. I find that I'd missed Sherlock's silences almost as much as I'd missed his endless talking, it would seem.

Sherlock's phone goes off a few more times during the drive, something we both ignore, and after a while, his hand unfolds from his lap and lies pleadingly on the seat between us. Without looking away from my book, I reach over and take it, the gesture almost natural enough now that I don't falter at the fear of it.

And, by car ride's end, Sherlock is right next to me, no space to be had, our hands now tightly twined together in his lap. By an unspoken agreement, neither of us comments on it. Bodies can do very strange things without our permission.

I'm starting to think that they're smarter than our brains.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, so this sort of got really fluffy and self-indulgent. But, you know what? They're (spoiler alert) falling in love over here, so this is allowed to get a <em>little <em>schmoopy! Right?**


	26. Chapter 26

_"I can't...I can't do it, John. I don't know how."_

**Sherlock POV**

* * *

><p>My parents are waiting for us when the car pulls up, and John stiffens beside me expectantly. After giving my fingers a squeeze, he lets go of my hand so that he can open the door. My mother descends upon him the second he's outside of the car, capturing him in a tight hug. John accepts the hug with ease, and I find myself wondering how the touch could come so naturally to them, and I then I wonder why I care.<p>

After she releases him, John walks over to the trunk to receive our bags from the driver. He carries both up the front walk, stopping only to shake hands with my dad before passing into the house. My father trails in behind him, which leaves me at the mercy of my mother.

She wastes no time in levying the whole of her attentions against me. I'm hardly out of the car before she's there, fussing over me, blathering on endlessly: I'm too thin; I'm looking tired; what have I been eating; am I sleeping enough; I should really be taking better care of myself, and on and on she goes.

Despite my obvious annoyance, and despite the fact that I've stopped listening, she persists in her irritating crusade all the way into the house, where John watches us, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement—an expression that leaves me feeling bizarrely gratified.

He's still holding our bags, and my mother finally stops in her pestering so that she can address him. Her eyes take on a sharp, analytical edge.

"Sherlock's room is right up the stairs, John," she says in a voice that makes it very clear that she knows exactly what is going on here. "It's the first door on the right. You can't miss it."

And that's it. No mention of a guest room. No discussion about sleeping arrangements or separate rooms. I can feel her eyes on my face now, and I only deign to give her a decidedly blank look.

His ears a bit red about the tips, John heads up the stairs, leaving me alone with my parents and their matching, pleased smiles. They exchange looks that are pathetically easy for me to read.

Told you, my mother's eyebrows say.

So you did, my father's smile answers.

I get a look of my own shot my way, my mother's eyes sharp and probing, only softening at the edges with the smallest hint of smugness. She looks infuriatingly like Mycroft in this moment, and I don't condescend to acknowledge her knowing satisfaction. I attempt to shoulder past them into the living room, but her voice halts me before I can make my escape.

"Where do you think you're going?

I make a small, abortive step in the direction of the living room, even though I know I've already lost.

"I don't think so." She crosses her arms, her lips set into a firm line that can't be argued with. "Come here, you. I need help with dinner."

John comes back down the stairs just in time to see me dragged into the kitchen. Laughingly, he watches me go and lets my father take him by the shoulder and lead him into the garden.

Once in the kitchen, I glare over at my mother, and, with more sulk in my posture than I would ever care to admit to, I squint with vague disgust at the various appliances.

"I don't cook."

"Oh, just think of this as one of your little experiments."

"They're not little experiments!" I say indignantly. "They're significant scientific investigations."

"Hm. Well, you aren't going to get much done staring out that window."

I snap away from the kitchen window, through which I had been watching John and my father amble around the yard. John's hands are clasped behind his back, and he is smiling widely at something my dad is saying. I look back at my mum, feeling like she's caught me doing something I ought not to be doing. Or maybe, wanting something that I'm not supposed to be wanting.

I'm a world famous detective, I remind myself, as my mother makes me feel like a clumsy and awkward child, thinking he got away with pulling cookies out of the jar even though he has the crumbs scattered all across his face.

Drifting away from the window, with one last longing look at the two of them, I come begrudgingly closer to her.

"What do you suppose they're talking about?"

I try for casual, but I know she can see through that.

"You, I expect," she fires back.

"Well, of course. I imagine very little else occupies John's thoughts, so naturally, I would dominate his conversation, as well."

She snorts, not allowing my flippancy to persist for a second. I frown at her but don't comment as I continue to stand indifferently at the counter amidst her flurry of movement. A very large part of me suspects that my presence in the kitchen has very little to do with providing assistance in preparing dinner. Vague discomfort descends within me. I find that I'm not prepared to face what she's about to uncover.

After a while, mum looks over at me, eyes soft.

"He is lovely, Sherlock." I studiously avoid her eyes. "Really, he is. And he's good for you." I look up in time to catch her wink. "Try not to chase him off."

The wince on my face is only there for a second, but she sees it instantly, and she's across the room in no time at all, bringing an apologetic hand to my face.

"Oh, my darling boy, I was only joking."

"Stop your fussing!" I snap, jerking away. "I'm fine!"

My anger apparently doesn't hide the worry underneath, because she won't let me be. She's dislodged something within that'd grown dangerously loose over time, and she knows it. Her hands persistently run over my face, full of warmth and reassurance.

"He's not going anywhere. I promise you. It's written all over his face."

Before I can stop her, she gives me a quick kiss to the temple, her hand sliding down to capture my arm in an affectionate squeeze. Giving me a light push, she sends me over to the table. I let her, mostly because I'm still feeling slightly wrong-footed. Before John, she was the only person who had ever been able to make me feel that way.

"Now, sit there," she's saying, "and do something useful."

But there's a twinkle in her eyes and a laugh in her voice, and I let myself borrow some of her surety. She's attuned to the baseline of my low-level stress, and I know she can feel whenever it spikes. She worries almost as much as John does, and reassuring her is tiresome, so I try to repress it to save myself some grief.

A bowl of potatoes is placed in front of me, as is a knife, and I look at her, outraged for a minute.

"And what am I supposed to do with these?"

"I'll leave you to your deductions,"

I catch her eye roll as she turns back to the stove.

We work in silence for a while, and I pretend like my hands aren't trembling. I have no idea why I'm so jittery, but I can't stop the hollow longing from passing through my ribs. Suppressed expectancy hums beneath my skin.

After a while, John looks in to the kitchen, and his eyes find mine instantly. Delight colors his features, and he looks overjoyed to see me here, over the potatoes, clearly struggling, obviously frustrated.

"How's it coming?" he says, turning away from me to address my mum.

"Beautifully," she beams at him before planting her hands on her hips. "But what are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," he chuckles. "It's just...I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock doing something as pedestrian as peeling potatoes!"

They laugh appreciatively for a moment, and I give an offended huff.

"Shut up."

But there's no malice behind it. I'm just so relieved that he's here that I can't summon the ire.

John looks back at me and tips an eyebrow.

Okay?

It goes unspoken, but we started talking without speaking a long time ago.

I'm not. Not at all.

But I hide that. I give a stoic nod instead.

John shakes his head, seeing through me in that scary way he has.

No, you're not, he frowns.

I shrug away from him, turning back to my task. There's a nasty silence, full of a tension that threatens to snap every nerve in my body. I can feel my mother watching us out of the corner of her eyes. But John ignores her, and walks toward me, propelled forward by concern. Being around John has the terrifying tendency to make everything else fade at the edges, and the closer he comes, the less aware I am of anything else in the room.

The chair beside me slides out, and John settles beside me so that our shoulders brush together. He nudges my elbow.

Talk to me.

I sigh and hold up one of the poorly-peeled potatoes.

"I'm not very good at this, I'm afraid."

But I'm looking at him as I say it.

"Well, hey, you're getting by. You're doing just fine."

"No, I'm absolute rubbish at it. Should probably have given up by now."

Laughing, the noise perhaps a bit too tight, he pulls the bowl away from me and takes the knife out of my hand.

"When have you ever given up on anything in your life?"

I don't respond.

He grabs my hand, and I don't realize I'm reaching for him until our fingers crash together.

"Hey," he whispers, "what's wrong?"

I shake my head.

I'm scared, John. You're scaring me.

You can't leave. Don't you understand that? Because if you leave, you're going to take it all. Don't you get it? You're going to destroy everything. You're going to bring it all down.

And I'll just be waiting for it. Always waiting for it.

And I can't do it.

"I can't do this, John."

And there's far too much panic in my voice for us to pretend that we're having a mundane conversation.

"Hey, hey, hey," he says softly, and I cling to every syllable.

"I'll help you. You don't have to worry about that. I'll help you."

He gives me a crooked smile, and I get the distinct impression that we're talking about different things.

"Just...Trust me, yeah?"

And just like that, even though it's about ten different shades of foolish—and even though I can enumerate each reason why it is—I do.

* * *

><p>John and I go to bed early after dinner. Or rather, he goes to bed early, and the thread that connects us drags me up the stairs behind him.<p>

We lay silently in my childhood bed, backs to one another, listening to the tick of the clock and the dissonant pattern our uneven breathing. Unthinkingly, I roll towards him and find that I miscalculated our positions. He's closer than I thought, his body angled toward mine, almost as though waiting for me. My head is now in the crook of his shoulder, my forehead pressed against the warmth of his neck.

Paralysis shoots through me as the panic sets into my bones. We are much, much too close. This is horribly, impossibly intimate. And I want it far too much for my own good. But, before I have a chance to flinch away, he drapes an arm around me, easily, and holds me in place.

It's okay, his hand seems to say. You're okay.

And suddenly, I can breathe again.

I never believed in impossible things before John Watson. But I don't know how else to explain what's going on here.

He gives a little laugh, and I move closer.

"What?" My voice vibrates through my chest and travels through his body.

"Nothing. Just. Your mum and dad. They're fantastic, Sherlock. They really are."

"Mm. You're glad we came?"

"Of course I am. Aren't you?"

I shrug against him, and the arm he has wrapped around me squeezes a little tighter.

"You're lucky to have them, Sherlock."

"I know."

And I do know. I know what the alternative is, and what's worse, so does John.

"I know," I repeat.

And I'm lucky to have you.

But those are words that will never make it into the air. They'll live and die inside of me, which is better than giving them to him and risking the chance that he'll throw them away.

But I can't deny that John's essence is sunk with mine. I can feel the two of us colliding and fusing, can feel him in the loom of my bones. He fits easily in there, like I could step outside of my body and it would remain whole and intact because John would still be there, holding me together.

And I'm too tired to explore the distant thrill of terror that I feel at that. Letting my head fall deeper into him, I close my eyes against the onslaught of doubts that always threatens to consume me now. I keep time with John's breathing, matching up our inhales and exhales until I can't fathom them into separate actions anymore.

**...**

The noises of silverware clanking and low murmuring wake me the next morning and escort me down the stairs. I know the pitches of those two voices better than perhaps any other sounds in the world. I hesitate at the door frame, uncertain about whether or not I want to reveal that I'm listening to them. There's a lull in their benign conversation, and my mother gives a contented hum. It vibrates with a sudden solemnity, and I can hear her preparing to ask the serious questions. She's digging for something, and I really should interrupt her, but I find that I'm far too interested in the answers John's about to give.

"Oh, John," she says contentedly, "it really is so good to see the two of you again. It's been ages."

She wisely does not comment on the circumstances of our last visit, and maybe, sometimes, I don't give her as much credit as I should.

John gives a grunt of true agreement, and that piques my interest. Why is he so happy to be here?

"My boys are terrible about coming to visit us," she sighs. "I try to get them to come 'round more often, but it's a job to pull them out of London! They're always off doing such grand, exciting things…off on their little adventures. They're too important now for us!"

She gives a good-hearted laugh. John chuckles, and I know that it's with associative affection—namely, that it's a special kind of sentiment that he connects with me. And now I have a ridiculous urge to be closer to him. Terribly problematic, really. I grip the doorframe more tightly.

The chairs creak, and I imagine them settling in more comfortably over their cups of tea whilst they gossip about me. I'm just about to step through when my mother speaks again.

"What about you, John, do you get up to see your family often?"

John clears his throat uncomfortably, but I can sense that he's going to answer her, and, judging by his long, considering pause, it's going to be the truth. Foreign warmth flutters through my chest. Strangely enough, I like the fact that his history is bleeding into this tiny, little room, joining all of the other hard truths housed by this family.

"My, um, my mum died when I was very young."

John coughs through the low, sympathetic noise my mother makes. She starts to form the words of an apology, but John keeps talking, doggedly, like he's pushing through something difficult.

"Yeah. Well. It turned my dad a bit mean. And when the drinking got too bad to bear, I, uh, I enlisted and didn't look back." He sighs. "My sister picked up some of my dad's bad...habits...and it's difficult to be around her at times. So, it often feels like I don't really have a family. Except for, you know, Sherlock."

Now, I have an excellent memory. In fact, I'm internationally known for having an almost infallible memory. But right now, in the hallway of my parents' house, standing just outside of the kitchen in which I spent almost every meal of my adolescent years, I seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

John Watson will do that to you.

My brain comes back online just in time to see my dad coming down the hallway toward me, newspaper tucked under his arm.

"What are you doing out here?"

I balk, uncertain how to respond to him. But my father has never been one to dig for answers, and he bestows upon me only a placid smile, absent of expectation, before moving into the kitchen. After a beat, I follow him.

John and my mother look up at me from where they're clustered around the kitchen island, small, secret smiles on each of their faces.

"Decided to finally stop eavesdropping and come in here, then?"

She catches my gaze out of the corner of her eye, latent satisfaction there.

"I wasn't eavesdropping," I sniff. My words come out stiff and challenging, and not even I fully believe them.

John gives a chuckle, and I whip around to face him. But his eyes are crinkling at the corners, and his hand is between us, reaching for me, and before he can take it away, and before I can think better of it, I enfold myself into his hold. He passes his fingers through my hair, the touch warm and familiar.

At the same time, we seem to realize that, and we stiffen.

My mother sets a plate between us, a wry twist to her mouth as she watches John and me break away. John raises his eyebrows at me and watches as I wrinkle my nose in distaste and push the plate away. His mouth is a disapproving straight line. Worry tightens around it.

"Sherlock—"

"—I never eat when I'm on a case. You know that."

"Yeah, and you also never sleep, but you sure went out like a light last nigh—"

Simultaneously, we freeze, the intimacy uncomfortably obvious in that statement. Our eyes slide over to my parents, who are suddenly very intently engaged in conversation. We let out an uneasy sigh that I didn't realize we'd been holding. Without commenting on it, I drag the plate toward me and start sullenly picking at the food in front of me. John watches me smugly, his hand dancing over the back of my chair.

The almost-there touch inexplicably chafes against me. I feel suffocated by it—suffocated by my need for it. There's a buzzing in my ears and a distant bruising about my body. Like I'm anticipating pain from a blow that hasn't yet fallen.

My head is throbbing in time with my heart, and the ache pulses through me.

"You two working today?"

My mother comes over again, collecting some of the breakfast dishes and putting them in the sink.

"Tomorrow," I bite out. My skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.

John shifts in his chair beside me. He knows that I'm stalling, and he's watching me critically. And I feel the slow creep of him, burrowing under my skin. I itch with the need for it, but I can't quite stomach it. Because it could all vanish so quickly.

Abruptly, I push to my feet, a terrible need to escape seizing me. I have to get away. I have to get away.

John follows me to the front door, always right behind me, never quite able to let me go.

"Sherlock stop. Just, stop. Please."

Slowly, I turn and sag against the door, looking at him miserably.

"Come here."

I don't take the hand that stretches between us. I can't.

"Where are you going? We have a case to solve. I can't do this without you." He gives me a half-convincing smile, and I latch on to it.

But he doesn't understand. That's part of the problem. Without the case, I'm nothing. There'll be no reason for him to stay. I'm going to let him down.

His brow furrows confusedly.

"Sherlock?"

"I just need some air. Just need to...breathe."

The words come too quickly, too feverishly. The panic is rising again.

John. I'm going to let you down. John. I can't breathe. Help me. Help me.

His arms are around me in the flash of a second, his warmth surrounding me, closing me in. He's shaking; or maybe, I am. I don't know. I can't think. I can't breathe. And, oh, God, I need him.

John. I need you, John. I need to know that we're in this together.

No.

I need to know that this is going to hurt you just as much as it's going to hurt me.

"You're okay, Sherlock. You're just fine." He strokes the back of my neck. "Just—where are you going? Stop trying to leave. Don't leave."

My hand is on the doorknob. I don't remember reaching for it. His arms are still around me, but they're growing looser by the second.

When he lets me go, I find that our eyes aren't far enough apart. He's too close to me. He can hear my heartbeat. The way it stutters and stops. The way it tries to find harmony with his.

He looks at me so certainly, so openly. But that's because he doesn't know what I know. He doesn't see what I see.

Oh, John. All that doubt. It's going to tear you apart. Going to tear us apart.

It's going to destroy us.

And I can't face it, so I do the only thing I know how to do: I leave. And I pretend like I can't see the hurt on his face as I go.

* * *

><p>When I get back, John's sitting on the stone bench out front, feet flat on the ground, and I don't need to see him to know that one of his legs is feverishly bouncing, sending restless quivers through the air.<p>

Upon seeing me coming up the walk, he jumps to his feet and falters toward me, catching himself mid-action, holding himself willfully erect, all of the conflicting emotions holding him in stasis. He runs a hand down his face and drags it over his chin. The step he takes toward me transforms into a pivot away. His pacing carries him back and forth, the spaces between his steps stretching and breaking.

He turns to me. He turns away. We catch each other's gaze. We break.

I see his lips form the shape of my name.

Oh. Oh, John. It's finally caught up with you, hasn't it?

It expends nearly all of my energy to cross the remaining distance separating us, but I force myself to walk. The journey between two certain pains is a strange one, filled with distant aches, and it doesn't matter which direction I choose—the sharp sting will always come.

His anxiety hits me like a wall when I'm close enough to see the strain in his eyes, to feel the strangled longing settling between us. And how are we ever supposed to survive like this: with every moment doused in desperation?

"Sherlock."

He doesn't so much say it as exhale it, and my breath shudders in response. Weakly, he chuckles and drops back to the bench. The relieved curve of his spine does little to soothe me as I watch him slump over, burying his head in his hands. And my brain has developed an annoying habit as of late where it consistently seems to fail me when I need it most. Which explains why I'm capable of doing nothing but stare blankly at him as he sits there, evidently in crisis.

Tentatively, his eyes shoot up to find mine, his pleading look accompanied by a feeble laugh.

"Is it ridiculous that the only thought that keeps going through my head is: 'thank God, thank God, thank God'?"

The answer to that is no, especially considering the fact that there are no thoughts going through my head; there's just a low, persistent hum. I clear my throat, the noise choking off abruptly as his hand closes around my wrist, pulling me closer.

"You were, uh, more affected by my absence than you thought you'd be."

I let him drag me down, set me into place beside him.

"Trust issues."

His anger flares at my words, his shoulders climbing higher with the defensive tension. But he tramps down the visceral emotion, letting it bleed out of him. Over and over again, he runs his thumb over my hand. The repetitive strokes are going to unravel me if they stop and if they keep going, and that is the madness of knowing John Watson. He is going to destroy me one way or another, and I'm starting to think that I won't really mind it all that much.

"I want you to know." He pauses, nodding to himself, convincing himself that he trusts himself to say it. "I want you to know that I forgive you. I really, truly do. But I can't—" He breaks off, steels himself. Each word seems to cost him more than he's able to give. "I can't lose you. Again. Ever again. I can't lose you ever again."

If there are more difficult things in this world than looking him in the eyes in this moment, then I don't know what they are. But I force myself to look, and they're there, waiting for me unflinchingly. Steady anchors that hold me in place.

"Sherlock?" His hand is on my cheek, the warmth of his touch tempered with concern. "You okay?"

Jerkily, I nod.

"Okay. Good. Okay. Now, I just need you to breathe."

The air shoots in suddenly, taking me by surprise. All of the nerves within me seem to unspool. His knuckles brush over my skin. I glance over my shoulder, my eyes flicking over to the house. I see the telltale flutter of the curtain, and I know my parents' faces were there just moments before.

I sigh in annoyance, but John only laughs, breaking the tension. His eyes are fixed on the same point as mine, but there's far more tolerance in his gaze.

"I've been out here for hours. Your parents probably think I'm mad."

"You're forgetting that they raised me. Everything you do is probably going to be normal by comparison."

At that, he gives an honest, true laugh. And he has a good laugh, I decide. It's a deep, full laugh that colors his features in lighter hues and makes the air around him shimmer and glow. He commits to it with his entire body. There is no insincerity about it. John puts on no airs.

I duck my head and join him. And I'm not quite sure how it happens, but we've turned toward each other, and my head is on his shoulder, and his fingers are carding through my hair. Our laughs taper into the silence of the wind, and I burrow deeper into his hold.

"You still getting headaches?" he asks softly. His breath is warm, and I feel the smallest brush of lips over the top of my head.

I don't answer him, but he's already pulling my face away and pressing his thumbs into my temples. His fingers lightly drag over my scalp, massaging gently, and I let my breathing keep time with his motions.

"No one is expecting you to be back to one hundred percent, you know."

His fingers work easily through my hair, and our bodies don't seem to know how to exist separately anymore.

"You've been through trauma." His lips dance just a breath away from my forehead. "I know what that's like, Sherlock—the nightmares, the triggers. The fear. Sometimes, you think you're going to be sick with it, don't you?"

Haltingly, I nod, and something like a sigh of relief passes through his lips.

"Yeah. I know. I know."

His hands drag down my back, and I lean against him. And I don't know why I crave this so badly—his touch—but I need it desperately. And I'm shaking, and I'm terrified. His hold only tightens on me, and I cling to him through it, gutted, because I feel like I could fall into him and just keep falling forever.

"I've got you. I'm here. I'm right here."

And, easily, like it costs him nothing at all, he presses a firm, steady kiss to the top of my head, and I let the feeling chase itself down my bones. I wait for the crack of it, of my body collapsing under the weight of it, but it doesn't come. Because he isn't going to destroy me. He's going to keep me together.


	27. Chapter 27

_"We're going to have to coordinate."_

**John POV**

* * *

><p>"It's Moriarty. I know it. He's toying with me."<p>

I glance up at Sherlock in surprise. He's been quiet all day, ever since we'd gotten back from interviewing the family, and I'd started to think that his silence was going to persist through the night. In the past, I wouldn't mind his long periods of not talking; I'd sometimes even craved them. But I find that I miss it, now; just miss him.

Because there are still moments when I worry that he didn't come back all the way.

He's still skittish, still jumpy. He still finches at sudden movements, goes rigid at odd moments, stares too long at things, like he's trying to convince himself that they're real.

And the urge is back: that heaviness under my ribs. All I want is to pull him towards me and just hold on. It's a hard admission to yield to myself, but the truth of it is too glaring to ignore anymore. I'd had to live without him for too long.

Sherlock's frowning at me over the tips of his fingers, his eyes downcast, his shoulders pitched forward. He's stretched out the full length of his parents' couch, and I'm on the ground beside him, our heads almost touching.

"He loves playing games, John. And giving me riddles. I don't like riddles."

The air is still vibrating around him like he's going to say something else, so I wait. I can taste his hesitation, but I don't push him. He needs to start to trust himself again, needs to start to listen to his instincts again. Needs to be sure.

With an aggravated sigh, sulk evident in the rustling of his pajamas, he turns slightly away from me, dropping his hands from his chin as he does. One of his arms falls over the edge of the couch, his hand knocking against my knee.

Staring at it, I'm struck by a memory of another moment just like this: of Sherlock and me in the jail cell, crammed in together despite it being single occupancy, simply because I'd refused to leave him. I still remember the way he'd looked at me with so much naked vulnerability on his face, his eyes wide and colored with a youngness leant to him by a certain kind of fear that only children understand. The fear of abandonment. And, just like that, I had known that I couldn't leave him, not even for a night.

He'd folded himself onto the tiny cot, tucking his long limbs beneath him like he was protecting something precious, like they were going to get away from him if he didn't hold onto them tightly enough. And, just like I belonged there, I'd sat down next to him, always by his side, just over his shoulder.

After a while, after he'd gone silent and still enough to let me think that he'd fallen asleep, he'd rolled over and looked at me through bright, glassy eyes.

"John."

He'd blinked slowly, considering.

"I miss you, John," he'd slurred. "I don't even know how that's possible, but I do. And you're right next to me. But I miss you."

And, god, that'd hurt more than any real bullet that had ever been lodged through me.

His hand had fallen, limply, pathetically, over the edge of the cot, and I, unthinkingly, had taken it, needing it to feel warmer than it did, needing its grasp to be firmer than it was.

We hadn't spoken of it after, in the cold, grey morning light. I don't even know if he remembers. But, for me, it'd tempered every interaction we've had since. Because I can feel it, now, every time he looks at me; that steady strum in his eyes that begs: Stay. Stay. Please. Don't leave me. Stay.

I take his hand in mine and tangle our fingers together, his long, slender ones folding elegantly over mine. Steadily, easily, I brush my lips lightly over each of his knuckles. The slight tremor that has been running through his fingers stills, and he gives a small gasp of surprise.

The kiss takes me by just as much surprise, and I freeze, unsure of how to proceed from here.

"Well." I cough, clearing my throat, and run my hands over his. "I'm not worried."

"No?"

"'Course not. Why would I be?"

There's a quizzical pull to his brow, hard lines around his mouth. I subconsciously grip his hand tighter.

"All of these murders—taking the organ that failed them most. It's leading up to something. Something about me. Me, and you…" He breaks off torturously, and looks at me with wide, scared eyes, the low light of the lamp scattering in his pupils. "John. I don't—I can't—" The panic is practically suffocating, and though he's hardly moving, I can feel Sherlock flailing in it, trying so desperately to latch onto something, to stay present.

Before I even register it, I've moved onto the couch beside him, my hands fluttering uselessly over him. I can see in the dimming of his eyes that he's leaving me, retreating into his mind, shutting me out. But I can't let him go. I need him to let me in.

Gently, pushing through the wall of pain and panic engulfing him, I grip his cheek, holding it like I'm holding something fragile. Slowly, trying not to spook him, I bring my thumb to lightly trace over the sharp rise of his cheek bone. His fingers are tangled in the front of my shirt, pulling insistently against the fabric there.

"John. It's a riddle. It's a riddle…" He repeats it over and over to himself, trying to understand. The thin skin at his forehead puckers, the green and purple veins there getting lost in the folds of translucent flesh. "I can't see it. I'm missing a piece. There's something I'm not seeing."

He's practically shaking with frustration and anger, drowning in the helplessness. Without warning, his hand slams flat against my chest, fingertips curling against my shirtfront like he's trying to reach through my sternum and claw out whatever it is he's looking for. The impact leaves me strangely winded, and I hold him tighter through it.

"Missing…a…piece." His eyes fly wide as he stares at his hand, slow-dawning understanding spreading over his face. "Something I can't see—" There's a twitch working at the corner of his mouth, and I try to smooth it away with my thumb. "I can't put it together. I can feel it falling apart in my mind. Fracturing. Breaking apart. The cracks are there. I can feel them. Always the cracks. Breaking me apart. It's a riddle, John. A puzzle. And there are too many pieces. And they keep breaking up. Breaking into more pieces. John. John. I'm losing them. I'm going to lose."

His words are bleeding together, faster than I can catch them, and he's shaking, falling apart in my arms. I pull him tight against my chest, the space between us painful. My hands still framing his face, I rock us back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

"Shh. Shh. Hey. Hey. You're okay, Sherlock. You're right here with me. You don't have to figure it all out right now. You're just fine. I've got you, yeah?"

His body is collapsed against mine, his hands clawing at the back of my shirt. My fingers grip his face ever-tighter and lift it so that his gaze meets mine.

"I'm right here. Yeah?"

He gives a jerky nod.

"And you're right here, yeah?"

Another nod.

"So, as long as that's true, nothing can be too bad. Right?"

He gives no response. Instead, he shifts forward, sinking into the warmth of my embrace. His forehead rests against my chin, and, god, he's still shaking. And we can't go back there. We can't do this again. As solid as he feels in my hands, I still feel like he's fading away. Like I'm losing him. Again and again and again.

"Hey," I say against his forehead, begging evident in my strained, strangled words. "Do you trust me?"

"Always," he whispers against my collarbone. "Only you. Always."

"Good." I press a kiss to his clammy skin, trying not to think too hard about the impulse behind the action. "Good. Because I've got you. Just you and me, yeah?" I kiss him again, feeling his breath shudder against neck.

A light, easy feeling skitters all over my skin, like I've finally left out a breath that I've been holding for a very long time. My ribs almost crack with the relief of it, like lifting the pressure has all of sudden thrown me sideways, knocked me flat on my back.

Slowly, Sherlock pulls back slightly, his eyes racing over my face. I'm not entirely certain of what's written there, but I know that it's raw and vulnerable and most definitely revealing. But I leave my expression open, let him see whatever it is that's there, showing him what I can't yet admit to myself. But his face stays blank. The data's not processing. He doesn't know how to read what I suddenly feel as though I'm screaming at him.

He brings his long, slender fingers to ghost over his forehead.

"You keep doing that," he says, voice low, careful, like he's weighing the words, testing their heft. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"I—I don't know."

I start to pull away, trying to extricate myself from him, which I should know is impossible, considering that I've been trying and failing to do it for years. His gaze, growing sharper, shrewder, tracks my every movement. And, oh, god, he's not going to make this easy for me.

Without warning, his hand shoots out and captures my wrist in his iron-tight hold.

"John. Why—" he falters, "why do I want it?"

He says the last part so quietly that I don't quite believe it.

"Sherlock," I breathe, my hand sliding down the back of his head, my fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. My eyes dart down to his lips as they pull slowly through his teeth. His swallows hard, the movement flexing through his jaw that I hold cradled in my palms. I try to copy the action, but my mouth is dry, my breathing raspy.

Heat spirals low in my stomach, and I move closer to him, the hunger somehow sharpening as my body curves toward his. The heat of his breath flutters over my face, sending undulating longing pulsing through me.

Sherlock's lips part, and I can't understand the sudden surge of want that floods through me. Pools in my chest. Surges through my veins. And, as a doctor, I'm fairly certain that I know how lungs work, but my body seems to have forgotten. There's just a dull throbbing around my rib cage, a tight pull through my chest.

I drag him closer, and Sherlock comes willingly, his hands scrabbling over my back, looking for purchase.

Our lips dance, just a breath away.

The floor behind us creaks, and we jump, breaking apart, the tension between us shattering. A flush is working its way up the back of my neck, and the heat surrounding us is almost unbearable. I shift back and look over my shoulder to where Sherlock's mother is walking into the room.

"Sherlock, love, have you seen…" she trails off, seeming to sense something amiss in the air.

Curiously, she looks between Sherlock and me. Understanding flashes in her eyes, and a smile plays at her lips.

"Sorry, boys. I was just, ah, looking for—"

"—In the kitchen, on the bottom shelf, in the second cabinet to the left," Sherlock fires off instantly.

I can feel his gaze burning through the back of my head, still watching me. I shrug uncomfortably under the heat and pressure of his stare.

"Thank you, darling. You know your father—he can't see a thing without his glasses. You were always so very good at finding them."

She smiles fondly at her youngest son, pride radiating off of her. I find myself smiling in the wake of her residual affection. Idly, I wonder if, when the time comes for me to get them, I'll lose my glasses with as much frequency as Sherlock's father. I snort and realize that half the time that they go missing, Sherlock will probably be wearing them, too stubborn to get his own. It takes delayed seconds for me to process the fact that I'm envisioning my foreseeable future with Sherlock and then several more seconds for me to acknowledge the fact that the idea is not wholly repulsive to me. In fact, if I'm being honest, the picture creates a gnawing hunger in my bones, an ache that reaches to my very marrow.

Unwittingly, my hand twitches in his direction before curling into a fist. A deep breath later, I unfurl my fingers and lay them gently over Sherlock's shoulder. He melts into the touch, the anxiety bleeding out of him.

Of course, since he's Sherlock, he doesn't live easily inside of tranquil moments, and within seconds, he's moving again, shooting upright to glare at his mother.

"Was there something else you needed?"

She's still smiling, but there's a good-natured sternness in the crease between her eyes, pitched downward in indulgent ire at her son.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, there is. John, dear, I could really use your help in the kitchen. It'll only take a second."

She drops a wink in my direction that we both pretend is a conspiratorial. Sherlock jumps to his fight, outraged, angry splotches of red blossoming over the pale stretch of his cheeks.

"What are you going to say about me?" he bites out peevishly.

"Nothing, love. Just go upstairs. I'll have John back to you in no time." She laughs lightly, unperturbed by Sherlock's petulance.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock doesn't budge an inch. He's an angry, seething mass hovering over my shoulder, his agitation buzzing in my ears. I try to reach for him to calm him, but he flinches away, and I know there's no point in reasoning with him. He's working himself up into one of his impossible states, and I give him an exasperated look even though we both know that there's no real annoyance behind it.

"What do you need John for?" he demands, turning to his mother, jaw stubbornly set. "You're just going to talk about me. I know you are."

"Did you seriously just stomp your foot?"

"Shut-up, John. I did not."

He's working himself up to a right strop, and even though it shouldn't, it just makes me want to hug him. It's just so wonderfully, him, that I can't be properly mad at him.

"Sherlock." His mom raises her eyebrows, and Sherlock slumps, apparently knowing what her no-nonsense look means.

"But John's mine," he whines.

"Excuse me? I'm what?" I sputter, his display of possession not sitting wholly unpleasantly with me.

Before Sherlock can respond, his mother's voice cuts across the room, some of the indulgence in it gone.

"Honestly, Sherlock. It's a conversation, not the end of the world. Now go to your room!"

"But—"

"Room. Now."

With a huff, Sherlock whirls away, making a point of stomping his whole way up the stairs.

I bite back a laugh before turning back to his mother, who is watching me with soft eyes.

"He has a strange tendency to regress when he comes back here, doesn't he?"

I laugh my agreement, but she doesn't join in. She's too busy watching me, something like fondness coloring her features.

"You tend to have the opposite effect on him, though. Don't you?"

I open and close my mouth, unsure of how to respond. She's quick to wave away my discomfort, though.

"Don't worry. You don't have to answer that. I was just making an observation. Though my sons give me very little credit, I assure you that I have had a fair number of astute moments in my time." There's a small twinkle in her eye as her smile deepens. "Sherlock and Mycroft were never especially adept at hiding their cigarettes from me. They were never good at hiding much of anything from me, to be honest. A mother always knows."

There's a warmth radiating from her, an accepting kindness that I find myself clinging to. She takes a few steps closer to me, and she smells the way I'd always imagined a mother should: like cinnamon and laundry detergent and home. Her smile turns sad as she studies me.

"I don't know quite how to say this, but I'm going to try. I—Sherlock is my baby boy; my dear, darling boy."

She pauses a moment, gathering her thoughts. When she looks up, there's a sheen of determination in her eyes, a look that I've seen so often before on Sherlock, though his was always a little more manic.

"Loving a genius comes with certain challenges. I should know. I raised three of them. When they were growing up, it was so hard to see the rejection they faced, the way the other kids didn't understand them. It never really gets easier. People so often forget that they're human. They can seem so cold, so invulnerable.

"Of course, I never saw them that way. They were just my boys with all of their flaws and faults mixed in with their brains and brilliance. And I loved them so impossibly much, and I just wanted everyone else to see how good they were.

"Sherlock, especially.

"Mycroft did better. When he cared to make the effort, he was able to adapt, was able to fit in.

"But Sherlock was different. He just always seemed to be wedged into a world that didn't quite fit him. And I always felt as though everyone was looking at him through obscured glass. Because how could they not see what I saw? They could say the cruelest things."

"They still do," I say through gritted teeth.

I shake my head, my hands clenching into fists. And even though the rational part of my brain knows that Sherlock is safe upstairs, sulking in his bed, the feral part of me wants to go rip someone's throat out, wants to dare anyone to say a word against him.

She nods approvingly.

"That's why you're so good for him, you know. You see the human parts of him, and you make him see them, too. Because, I think, sometimes, he tries to forget that those things inside of himself exist."

She pulls me into a loose hug that I return without hesitation.

"You'll take care of him, won't you?"

I nod.

"Of course."

After all, he's mine.


	28. Author's Note

I have not abandoned this story! It is still continuing. I am, however, no longer posting on this website. It's become extremely hard to use and hard to edit, and it sometimes eats my stories instead of posting them. I am, in a week, going to terminate my account. That said, I am continuing to update on Archive of Our Own (. org). I am so grateful to anyone who has ever followed/faved/reviewed. If you wish to continue with me, come find me at /works/1149072/chapters/2328418


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